


PlayerUnknown’s Soulsborne Waifu Compendium

by WickerMan



Category: Bloodborne (Video Game), Dark Souls (Video Games)
Genre: Amnesia, Anal Sex, Basilisk(s), Blind Character, Breast Fucking, Butt Worship, Cock Worship, Consensual Sex, Creampie, Cringe, Crossdressing, Cuddling & Snuggling, Deepthroating, Dendrophilia, Episodic Chapters, Even massive deer monsters need love, F/M, Face-Fucking, Face-Sitting, Femdom, Foot Fetish, Foursome - F/F/F/M, Frottage, Hypnotism, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Implied/Referenced Incest, JOI - Freeform, Lamiae, Large Breasts, Life Drain, M/M, Maledom, Mind Control, Mind Rape, Monster Girls, Nonconsensual Handholding, Nursing Handjob, Nymphomania, Oral Sex, Poisoning, Porn with Comedy, Porn with Feelings, Rape/Non-con Elements, Rough Oral Sex, Rough Sex, Self Confidence Issues, Sex Doll, Sloppy Makeouts, So THAT'S how Madman's Knowledge works, Spanking, Teabagging, Tentacles, This isn't complete and I don't know how to change it back :(, Three Bird Lolis, Threesome - F/F/M, Threesome - F/M/M, Trees too, Yandere, Ye Olde English, dry humour, petrification, thicc
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-07-11
Updated: 2017-07-28
Packaged: 2018-11-30 18:58:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 7
Words: 41,658
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11469684
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WickerMan/pseuds/WickerMan
Summary: The world of Soulsborne is filled to the brim with waifus, and this compendium hopes to feature some of the lesser known gems! A (mostly) comedic series of short stories set across the Dark Souls and Bloodborne games, featuring lovely ladies from NPCs to bosses to basic mooks you forgot even existed!





	1. Chaos Witch Quelaag and the Fair Lady

** PlayerUnknown’s Soulsborne Waifu Compendium **

**(A/N):** This is the product of me finishing Dark Souls 3, being on no fap, and having a tired and twisted no-inhibition conversation with someone on Skype at one in the morning.

Having played all of Soulsborne (Sans Demon’s Souls sadly) at this point, I’ve accumulated a fairly long list of waifus from all over the spectrum, ranging from shy young women to trap gods to massive beasts. So it was pretty surprising to see the general lack of stuff for these characters, save for the bazillion bits of Ciaran and Priscilla drivel on the net and that one collection of stories with girls shagging monsters.

That’s alright and all, but I feel that the other side deserves a chance. Monster girls exist for a reason, eh? So with that, here’s the first entry in a planned 22 chapter series of comedic lemons across the Soulsborne games starring some of the less popular girls, drawn from bosses, NPCs, and common enemies!

Today’s chapter stars Hollow Knight Galloway, and his _hot_ encounter with Chaos Witch Quelaag and her sickly sibling!

 **WARNING:** Obvious sexual content, spelling errors, bad language, crude jokes, sex with things that some people might find gross, OC protagonists with little personality, OOC behaviour, non-lore friendly events, and my first story in around six months and my first LEMON in probably four years!

** Chapter One: Chaos Witch Quelaag and the Fair Lady **

He’d always hated bloody spiders.

That was before he’d entered Blighttown. That was before he’d descended the patchwork network of rotted timber and worn stone. That was before he’d forded an endless body of sludge and dung whilst on the run from hungry bugs eager to have a slurp at his precious bodily fluids. That was even before he stumbled to shore and clawed for cover in a cave whilst under assault from rock hurling brutes with nothing better to do than stand around in poison and throw things at innocent passersby.

So you could probably sympathise with his current predicament, having barely caught his breath within the confines of a large, smoothly bored chamber before a new threat made itself known. A fatso would’ve been fine. Why, he wouldn’t have been particularly aggravated if there were two of them. He was a reasonable bloke, hard to surprise.

Instead he got a spider.

A spider with tits.

Now don’t get him wrong; he was a rather modern man and all for creative kinks, but a spider with tits? A _spider_ with _tits._

 **“Welcome, bringer of meat.”** it said, trudging towards him. A spider with tits that could also talk, terrific. **“The children of chaos are hungry. Give yourself to Quelaag's flame!”**

This was all going by pretty quickly, but for the sake of efficiency he ran through what was going on. He was at the very bottom of Lordran facing off against a big red spider, which had the upper body of a woman sticking out of its front, and apparently wanted to eat him. He’d had worse first impressions, but not too many.

His equipment caked in filth yet still in good nick, Hollow Knight Galloway brought his shield to bear and poised his shortsword for action. The heaviness of his arms and legs subsided for the moment, the adrenaline of oncoming battle surging through his veins with a practically audible zap.

The spider, which he assumed was called Quelaag, darted forward in that characteristically erratic way spiders tended to creep you out with. She grew larger and larger as she raced across the dust ridden earth, skittering forward with a warped black blade in her hand and smoke in her wake.

Her human body – the _pretty_ part – was completely nude, her skin a porcelain white and without fault. Nice and sizeable her bust was equally peerless and captivating, not that he was staring or anything. Honest.

 She was the perfect contrast to the domain she ruled over.

_The irony brigade must’ve been shitting theirselves._

Her breasts bouncing in motion with her strides, she leapt at him in a terrifying lunge. He didn’t roll to evade it so much as leap forward, clawing himself back to his feet behind her with a relieved whoop. He was right up to her now, and the sense of scale hadn’t really been apparent up to this point.

Momentarily confused by his dive, Galloway took the opportunity to swing at the creature’s many kneecaps. She wouldn’t miss any of those anyway. Alas, its thick exoskeleton held firm against his simple iron blade. He couldn’t so much as leave a dent.

Quelaag didn’t even spare him an irked glance, that’s how little he’d done to faze her just now. Reasonably panicked by this development what with stabbing things being the best skill in his repertoire, the Hollow Knight raised his shield and backpedalled hastily, knowing full well that he couldn’t outrun the arachnababe.

What happened next could best be described as a stage show sketch, the pair running around in circles for the best part of three minutes. None of his strikes were met with any apparent sign of damage, and her own blade swipes were getting more and more accurate as she attuned herself to his rhythm. He was forced on the defensive, not that he had ever been on the offensive.

Dodge to the left, backstep, crouch, raise shield – _there_.

Without even realising it the Hollow Knight had somehow gotten himself cornered in a room that lacked corners, his guard broken and his squishy innards ripe for the picking. Quelaag raised the point of her chaotic blade, its design an orgy of a thousand gothic artists with parental issues.

 **“W-Well.”** Galloway’s voice cracked, strenuous beads of sweat joining a billion other varieties on his brow. **“You, uh… Said you wanted meat?”**

A mischievous smile that would’ve been alluring in a slightly less volatile scenario spread across her pink lips, her free hand playing with her expertly combed rouge hair. She had plans in store for this foolish undead, that was for sure.

He’ll admit, _now_ he was staring at her tits in all their glory. If he was about to die, he’d at least be looking at something nice. As if noticing his degeneracy she folded her arms across her breasts, pressing them together in a way that almost seemed _teasing_.

She muttered **“Those who trespass Quelaag’s Domain belong to _me_.”** as a maw where her human body ended began to open. The Hollow Knight noticed at this point that a larger mouth and tongue resided where a spider’s head ought to be. He would’ve upchucked his lunch at the sight if he hadn’t done that on the way here.

In moments a cascade of lava or magma or whatever it was gushed out from the spider’s newly revealed gob, searing fury unleashing upon his person. In a futile yet commendable display he brought his shattered shield to bear to try and ward off the onslaught, yet the discharge parted at his presence. Within moments he was surrounded by a moat of steaming molten liquid. The sweltering heat would’ve been unbearable even if he _wasn’t_ in a full set of plate mail.

His legs were the first to go, as he stumbled onto his knees like a festive drunkard. Next his arms began to wibble and wobble like an exquisite jelly before his hands lost their purchase and he fell to the floor. Surprisingly his eyes were the last to give up as heat exhaustion tucked his brain and body to sleep and gave him a nice wet kiss on the forehead.

Galloway had always been a light sleeper, especially when there was a spider in his room as a boy, so he couldn’t have been asleep long. Yet Quelaag was a large and agile thing, and could have easily ferried him from Carim to Courland in about the time it takes for him to trim his beard.

Regardless, his location wasn’t the first thing that came to mind when he began to stir from the void. Actually the first thing that came to mind was that he was in fact not dead, because if he was dead he probably wouldn’t be able to ask himself these sort of questions in the first place. More to the point while his body felt heavy in all the wrong places, he could still _feel_. He could _feel_ that his back rest upon something rough and covered in short strands of grass or hair, and he could _feel_ something soft and podgy behind his head like a cushioned headrest.

Of greater interest was a rising tingle in his senses. He was having trouble locating it what with the grogginess and all, but it was a constant alternating rhythm. _Tingle, tongle_ … _Tick, tock_ … And so on so forth. He would’ve probably worked it out if you gave him five more minutes and three guesses, but thankfully his eyes began to cooperate at that point.

A white haired young woman, sharing the beauty of Quelaag straight down to the perfect – albeit somewhat smaller – cleavage, was licking, kissing, and at times sucking on the tip of his cock.

She clearly had little idea what she was doing, but she was putting her all into it. Dainty white hands clutched at his base as she slowly circled her tongue around the exposed head, her heart beating at thrice the pace.

_Now that’s a wake-up call if he’d ever seen one._

**“Very good, _very_ good.”** a loud voice belonging to Quelaag complimented. He wasn’t quite sure where she was speaking from. **“Do you want to try it agai-“**

The end of the younger woman’s tongue found _the_ spot, pressing against the very tip of Galloway’s length. He gasped in surprise, a lewd bolt of satisfaction zipping down his spine and causing the girl to reel back in alarm. Quelaag snickered in her seemingly characteristic manner, her arms squeezing his waist. He was leaning against her front securely; his head nestled comfortably against her ample bust.  His armour – whatever state it was in - was gone.

 **“Awake now, are we?”** Quelaag gloated, her snowy counterpart shyly continuing to pump away with both hands. There was a wet squelching sound as her saliva lubricated her movements, his tool slippery in her soft palms. **“Rightly so.”** the girl rubbed her index finger over _the_ spot curiously, coating it in a generous amount of precum. She pressed it between finger and thumb experimentally. **“Do you know why you are here?”**

It was probably a rhetorical question, but even then he was too busy staring at the lady directly in front of him. The innocence in which she tended to his bulbous need had its own sense of erotica, and it was _hypnotic_. Her eyes were closed yet her head moved to the direction of Quelaag’s voice – was she blind?

As the younger lady return to her oral duties, loudly slurping on the tip in an apparent effort to stuff more of it between her plump little lips than possible, Quelaag continued. **“We want your humanity, Undead. The very essence of souls.”** the girl’s pearl white teeth accidently grazed ever so slightly upon the flared ends of his cock, prompting the quietest ‘ _sorry’_ he’d ever heard as she lapped at the afflicted area like kissing a boo boo. **“And can it come in any purer form than from your loins?”**

Just to make sense of this, these women wanted his _contribution_ and thought it contained the magical power of life itself? Well, in _some_ ways they were right to think that. The white haired woman tried to take the plunge again, slowly willing the first inch of the length into her mouth without issue – it was the next part that would be difficult. Galloway looked on as she adjusted her lips, her tongue crudely yet amiable flicking at the underside of his member in an attempt to pull another moan from him. He had a feeling she enjoyed it when he made those sort of sounds.

 **“Do you understand, _male_?”** she said the word like you’d say ‘ _foreigner’_ or ‘ _art student_ ’, an additional layer of condescension joining her typical layer to make something so thick it’d take a battleaxe to slice through it cleanly.

He wasn’t really in a good position to give an answer at the moment, so he settled with a subdued nod that set the breasts he lay upon bouncing like the ebb and flow of the sea. Seemingly content with his answer, Quelaag’s attention turned away from him and returned to the one who mattered.

 **“Don’t rush it, sister.”** she warned, leaning forward and pulling the Hollow Knight even further between her head-sized breasts. She had a peculiar, alien smell to her – fragrant and dizzying. **“If it starts to hurt…”**

A muffled sound that could’ve meant either yes, no, or ‘ _yahtzee_ ’ vibrated down the length of his cock as Quelaag’s sister pushed further and further, her brow knit in concentration as she slowly willed it forward. Through the warm caress of her tongue to the beginnings of the boiling grip of her throat, a shudder surged through Galloway’s jaw. He tried to stay perfectly still right down to his pulse – he was as invested in this as the young lady was.

There was a pained gulp as her limit was reached, and the pale woman pulled away like a diver surfacing for air. Loudly she gasped and sputtered, her breasts heaving as a strand of drool hung from her lips to his drenched tool. She clutched onto it firmly, tugging at a slow constant. **“Q-Quelaag…”** she shuddered, her breathing haggard. **“I can’t, t-the taste…It’s too…”**

Quelaag literally dropped him on the floor and raced to her sister, pulling the scared young girl into a loving embrace befitting of the closest of siblings. Galloway heaved himself to his knees, watching the pair in this moment of tranquillity. It was a strange thing to watch, what with the nature of Quelaag and Blighttown before her. It seemed even now in the darkest of times the love of sisters held firm.

 _Them both being massive spiders added to the strangeness, but details, details_.

 **“You’re as talented as you are beautiful, dear sister.”** she murmured paternally, a long nailed finger combing through her strands of hair with experienced technique. Did she often brush her sibling’s hair for her? **“You can take a break if you’d like, I can-”**

 **“N-No.”** the younger of the pair refused, letting her hair be played with. **“Not yet, I… Want to _hear_ more.”**

Quelaag looked down at the Hollow Knight in her usual looking-down-at manner, the pained tears of her sibling tended to and her quest still ongoing. **“I will help you as much as I can.”** she whispered affectionately, her wicked smile replaced by genuine love – all for her dear sister of course. **“Okay?”**

A subtle nod and subdued “ _Yes_ ” were answer enough, and Quelaag skittered toward him dominantly. **“Sit.”** she commanded, gesturing at a raised bumped on the rugged chamber surface. It was likely that they were still in the tunnel system of Blighttown, not far from where he collapsed.

Under the awkward scrutiny of the red-headed sister he clambered the rise, conveniently positioning him for easy access for the younger sibling. It was the perfect height, down to a centimetre. This was the sort of contrived coincidence only he ever seemed to encounter, and it was beginning to legitimately bother him.

Quelaag’s sister reached forward with the guidance of her sibling, blindly feeling for Galloway’s still boiling member. While the pause in the action and being dropped head first onto the dirt so suddenly had let it go ever so flaccid, all it took was her timid touch and the innocence of her smile to put him back into gear.

 **“Are you ready?”** Quelaag asked, leaning closely to her sister’s ear. The Hollow Knight was about to answer but she quickly snapped. **“I’m not talking to _you_ , male.”**

Answering her with action the snow-haired lady started her ritual from the very beginning, as if psyching herself up through procrastination. She started ever so gently, slowly running her tongue from the base of his testicles all the way to the tip, her tongue flicking off the end and leaving his cock bouncing. Both of her grey hands gripped onto it to keep it still, kneading it like dough as her lips wrapped around his helmet.

 **“Very good.”** Quelaag commended, reaching her arms around her sibling’s chest and grasping onto her pert little breasts. She squeaked in surprise, pulling away for the moment and letting the undead’s precum dribble from her lips.

 **“Q-Quelaag…!”** her raised voice was barely any louder than her normal, hushed tone. Quelaag laughed ever so quietly, egging her sister on through arousal. She carefully squeezed her sister’s tits in her palms, making sure to release them from her cruel grip _just_ before it could hurt her. The red-head exhaled hotly, pressing against her younger’s back encouragingly. She knew _exactly_ how good she felt.

 **“Try licking _those_.”** Quelaag instructed, the nails of her index fingers prodding at her sibling’s nipples and running circles around them **“I bet that’ll make him _squirm_ ”**. Galloway could feel every tremble and whimper the younger sister was experiencing, the person she loved the most fondling and exploring her virgin body. Deep down she probably _dreamed_ of this day, and his cock ached for more.

With a reserved pop she pulled his rock hard length from her mouth, slowly lowering her head. **“Like this…?”** she questioned, awkwardly flicking her tongue against his balls with long, rapid licks. Before Quelaag could even add to her advice the girl took to suckling, willing one into her mouth at a time and squeezing them gently between her lips, savouring them like sweet candies and coating them in saliva. For all the timidness she displayed, she had a talent alright.

Galloway could feel the moan starting from his chest and travelling up his throat, and he let it out as the girls’ reward. His back arched slightly to cope with the sensation, the younger woman rising from where she was with the sort of smile on her lips that could launch a thousand and one ships. To be honest the Hollow Knight was surprised that sight alone wasn’t enough to put him over the edge.

 **“I always knew you were a pervert deep down, sister.”** Quelaag snickered mischeviously, continuing to knead her sibling’s breasts as she wrapped them around the trembling cock of the undead. The touch was velvet. **“How about _this_?”**

 **“Between my b-breasts?”** she questioned in confusion, her own hands resting awkwardly to her sides as she let her wise sister do the work for her, completely at her mercy. Soft flesh danced and glided expertly around Galloway’s cock, both he and the snow-haired beauty being brought to ecstasy from this skilful massage. **“D-Don’t stop…”**

Galloway unconsciously began to thrust into the movement, then after a moment started doing it _consciously_. Soon enough the sound of flesh on flesh began to slap and smack with force and speed and damp, _smack, smack, smack_. He howled again, earning a whimper as reserved and adorable as she from Quelaag’s sister.

To think that not too long ago Quelaag was trying to murder him to death, and before that he was fighting inbred creatures in a giant bog. Now he was in heaven, two beautiful women eager to please. **“You’ve got such lovely breasts.”** Quelaag cooed almost jealously, nuzzling her helpless sister’s cheek affectionately. She alternated the movements, pumping up the volume of her sister and the knight’s cries. **“You deserve better than this _ape_.”**

He’d been called much worse than that, not that he cared at this point. His toes curled back and forth, his control beginning to crumble as he saw the point of no return racing towards him at full pelt. He growled gutturally, gritting his teeth as the sister’s breaths grew more and more hurried and shallow – no doubt on the road to her own orgasm. More of that contrived coincidence; he must’ve been _made_ of the stuff. The snow-haired girl reached for Quelaag’s hands and tried to eke out just a bit more pleasure, her body _desperate_ for that last push before the fall.

But Quelaag stopped at the precipice.

 **“S-Sister…?”** the younger stuttered as Quelaag released her breasts, after a few moments of heavy breathing. Galloway’s cock twitched and trembled in silent rage, rubbing expectantly between her slack and soaking tits.

The fiery red-head – pun intended – licked her lips. **“Not like that.”** she declared, skittering away and moving to her sister’s side. She pressed her nose against Galloway’s member, holding it by its base and shaking it testingly. It was still as stiff as her resolve, and she breathed lustfully. **“I have _my_ needs too.”**

Now Galloway hadn’t expected Quelaag to join in for sure, but he _definitely_ didn’t expect her to do what she did next. Although to be fair on reflection it was pretty obvious, as she positioned his cock and took it all the way into her throat. The noise he made was less of a howl or a moan and more of a squeal, the older of the sisters reaching his base with ease. With a loud sucking sound she pulled back to his tip and plunged in again, and again, and again at rapid speeds. Her hands pumped in perfect sync, her technique flawless and without peer.

Listening in fascination, the younger sister – no doubt feeling left out in all this – mimicked her elder and reached around her chest, her small hands feeling and pinching at Quelaag’s large breasts. Quelaag pulled away from the Hollow Knight with a smirk, pumping roughly as she sunk against her sibling’s hot and sweaty bosom.

 **“Dear sister, you never cease to surprise me.”** she giggled, her inexperienced sibling struggling to hold so much cleavage at once. While she was clumsy in what she did, the older sister appreciated her efforts and was eager to encourage her. **“Mmmm, I _love_ it when you squeeze my tits”** she moaned in an approving, albeit cringe worthy manner – it did the job regardless. Quelaag casually continued her torture of Galloway as she spoke to her kin, rapidly pumping away with one clenched fist yet seemingly not paying the slightest bit of attention. He wanted to cum so much. She could tell. **“I think this disgusting _dog_ is nearly there.”**

 _No points for the choice of animal, ten for the alliteration_.

 **“I-I can do it.”** the snow-white girl promised, hesitantly releasing he elder’s bosom from her clutches. **“Just like you did, right?”**

Quelaag turned to embrace her, nestling her younger's head atop her breast maternally. **“I’ll be right here.”**

With the plan settled in less than fifteen words, the fragile lady positioned herself for the main event, her loving sibling returning to brushing and combing her hair between her fingers. While it always made her feel more comfortable, she knew that it was equally calming for her concerned sibling. She breathed deeply, caressing the burning cock before her with her hot breaths. She kissed the tip once, then twice, and again – three pecks to psyche herself up. And then opening her mouth with the wet sound of tongue and spit, she began to push. By her back Quelaag joined the effort, gently pushing her head forward. Galloway held his breath.

She was half way there in no time. **“Good, such a beautiful girl.”** Quelaag whispered, reaching for the undead’s balls and squeezing them gently. **“You’ve fit _so much_.” ** she purred in arousal, mostly for her sibling’s benefit but in some ways to push the horny male before them over the edge. She moaned hotly, tickling his testicles with the points of her nails as at last he crossed the point of no return.

**“ _Cum for us_.”**

His muscles spasmed and tightened and his orgasm took control, ropes of cum shooting down the fair lady’s throat amidst muffled moans. He didn’t fight the contractions as they took over his body, nor did she fight back as she was filled with his essence.  When he was finally finished – however long that took – the younger sister continued her suckles and slurps hungrily as she reluctantly pulled away from his sticky length. When at last she broke free she was gasping for air amidst the occasional sputter, until at last after a brief pause she swallowed it down.

 _Bliss_.

She rested her grey cheek against the Hollow Knight’s drenched and spent member, her lovely hair spilling across his hips as she let her exhausted and orgasm-wrecked body whisk her to a fulfilling sleep.

Quelaag continued to brush as her sibling surrendered to the allure of slumber. **“Good girl. _Good girl_.”** she whispered proudly. For the slightest of moments she glanced at the still conscious – albeit shaken – Galloway, her expression beaming with an almost grateful joy. Her eyes alone conveyed a silent thanks for his contribution. Exhaling in satisfaction she rest her chin upon her tired sister’s head, squeezing her tightly and listening.

Silence.

The red-head muttered **“… Nothing’s happened.”**

Was something supposed to happen? Did she expect some magic to come out of thin air? Maybe for the Firstborn to suddenly appear and reveal all the secrets of Oolacile in a comedic song and dance routine? Galloway – eventually - regained his breath, trying to ignore the sleeping pretty girl still attached to his cock. **“Nothing’s happened”** he agreed.

 **“Where is the humanity? T-The essence of… I thought…?”** Quelaag sputtered in utter confusion, a state of mind her husky voice was not suited for.

Now that the sheer lust of the scenario had settled, the Hollow Knight ran his situation through his thick skull for what must’ve been the fifth time today. He’d just had lewd, kinky, taboo, non-penetrative sex with two spider sisters with a bit of incestuous lesbian subtext going on, in the bowels of a forsaken swamp, all in a mission to try and harvest his sperm in order to gain the very essence of life itself for some great purpose.

At what point was this supposed to make sense?

At what point was _any_ of this supposed to make sense?

He glanced at the snow-haired sister on his lap. While she did look peaceful, with a strand of her drool still stretching from her lips to his knob, she too had a massive freakin’ spider for legs. He’d just been deepthroated by spiders, his one true nemesis. It was typical really, first they took the jobs and then the womenfolk. What would an undead and half spider half human hybrid even look like anyway?

 **“ _You_.” ** Quelaag hissed, having nothing else to vent her anger on and lashing out on the closest thing she could find. She lifted her snoozing sister away from the Hollow Knight and held her to her bosom protectively, sparing her from her temper. **“Get out of my domain. _Leave_!”**

 **“W-What about my trousers?”**  Galloway stammered, cupping his joy department between his hands with sudden embarrassment. He wasn’t about to feed the spuds to the lions, even if he’d literally just had them in the mouths of said lions. **“And that whole humanity th-”**

Molten gloop burst out of the spider’s maw, ready to melt some faces.

**“ _Leave_!”**

He couldn’t remember what he specifically did during his blind panic, but the end result was him sprinting out of the cave system wearing nothing but his helmet and his boots with all the equipment he could carry in his arms in tow – ironically, everything _apart_ from his trousers. Looking back through the tunnel he spotted the enraged spider woman with blade in hand screeching for blood, and in panic slipped and tumbled down the web coated incline. The arachnababe, placated for the moment, slunk back to her domain to brood.

Hollow Knight Galloway sat up at the foot of the slope, fishing his drenched armour from the sludge of the swamp and getting to work pulling it all back on. If there was one thing for certain, he didn’t want to die _completely_ naked – he’d settle for less in the pants department.

 **“Well, that was an adventure.”** he said to no one in particular, readjusting his greaves and pouring green muck out of his gauntlets. **“Spiders, check. Pretty women, double check.  Lesbians, _double_ double check. Foreplay, oh that’s a _quadruple_ check.” ** he pulled on his brigandine. **“Probably all a stinking dream, maybe I’m just conked out in a gutter somewhere. Still, I’ve had worse experiences.”**

There was a thunderous crash as a malformed boulder exploded to his right, throwing a smokescreen of stone and dirt into the air that went straight for the lungs. He covered the mouth of his helmet, futilely swatting at the air. Once the smoke cleared he pulled open his visor to scan his surroundings, spotting a deformed behemoth of a man with enough fat in his body to feed a banquet.

It raised another boulder, the other having been a warning shot.

Galloway rose to his feet, sans pants, as the boulder was launched towards him.

**“ _Bloody spiders_.”**

X

 **(A/N):** _There we have it, my first attempt at a lemon in four years! I think it may’ve been a bit awkward starting in a hard place with a threesome scene involving two massive half spider ladies, but eh… Also feel like I focused a bit too much on the scene and less on the main stuff – that is, the smexy tiems – than I should. Regardless, this is more of a test than anything, and if things go to plan we’ve got plenty of different awkward scenarios to come_

_Join Galloway again in the next chapter as he encounters a different kind of “fair” lady at the bottom of Blighttown’s swamp!_


	2. Maneater Mildred

** PlayerUnknown’s Soulsborne Waifu Compendium **

**(A/N):** We’re back for the second entry of the Compendium!

Today’s chapter continues the tale of Hollow Knight Galloway sans trousers, reeling from his encounter with the Chaos Witches only to be faced with a new, _slightly_ less nude threat – she’s a maneater!

 **WARNING:** Obvious sexual content, spelling errors, bad language, cringy sex dialogue, crude jokes, sex with things that some people might find gross, OC protagonists with little personality, OOC behaviour, probably a bit of disease, non-lore friendly events, and my first story in around six months and my first LEMON in probably four years!

** Chapter Two: Maneater Mildred **

He needed humanity.

But then what else was new?

After what felt like hours of wading through Blighttown’s waist high waters whilst under assault from all angles, Hollow Knight Galloway had eventually reach the closest thing to a ‘ _safe’_ spot the swamp had on offer. Withered old stone formed a crude oval mouthed tunnel, which raced up in a slight slant to an open grating. Long ago this had probably been some sort of sewage pipe, now it was a subpar place of respite for those few travellers who could stomach the descent.

The undead’s bare and weary legs, covered in matted hair and overly confident leeches, struggled to carry him through the last few inches of sludge until at last he reached damp – but comparatively dry – land.

Galloway slipped with comical timing, slamming his jaw against the concrete and rattling his teeth like a demented maraca. After a straight minute of deranged screaming and delirious angrish aimed at the ridiculousness of his circumstances and the sheer pain his bones were feeling, he let his limbs go slack in defeat.

He was tired, hungry, humiliated, and alone.

Slowly like an unruly child before bed time he rocked himself over to his back, forcing his eyelids to cooperate for the moment. Muddied legs flailed stupidly as he tried to find purchase, placing his booted soles into the squelchy no-man’s-land between marsh and concete. Like a mummy from its casket he pulled his torso up, draping his arms over his knees and sitting silently in the dimly lit sewer pipe.

Fog and steam continued to billow from the slime before him. He absentmindedly tapped his submerged feet to a tone-deaf rhythm, the peculiar squelching sound echoing through his newfound sanctuary as he peeled off his brigandine, plucked the bloated leeches from his person and flicked them across the way like errant boogers.

_Plip plop… Plip plop…_

It wasn’t easy being a hollow. It wasn’t just the whole beef-jerky issue that most people worried about, but rather the mental deterioration that truly tested body and spirit. Galloway had urges that clawed and probed and gnawed at his mind whenever he wasn’t focused on staying alive, which thankfully – if you could honestly say that – tended to be at all times.

But now in a state of reprieve he could reflect in peace, and it was these quiet times of reflection that pained him the most. Once he’d thought that being hollow would never get him down and that all the lost souls he’d encountered across Lordran were wimps of the highest calibre. He thought he was exempt from such things, he was _him_ after all.

Yet the hunger was always there. It panged and it growled, irritable and frustrated. It was a profound feeling; a strange mix of primal aggression, unchecked lust, and a craving for something succulent. Even in the darkest of times those urges were still there, watching and waiting for the opportune moment like a juvenile shoplifter.

He needed humanity.

He needed humanity _now_.

Maybe that red-headed spider bimbo had been onto something? Maybe somehow she’d actually squeezed out the very essence of his soul and being, draining him of the humanity he’d had left? By the gods that would be _awkward_ to explain in the afterlife wouldn’t it?

They’d both had such gorgeous white tits, hadn’t they? Large or small, he couldn’t quite take his pick. And their mouths and tongues all over his dick? So hot, so _good_. What he would’ve given to have another go with them. He’d use them both at once, have the youngest nibbling at his balls and the oldest choking on his great fat cock. He’d never gotten to fuck Quelaag’s tits had he? He would’ve _killed_ to have his cum squeezed out by her, for her to lay back and let him thrust at full throttle and in complete control. He wanted to fuck them both dry until they were drooling on the floor, fuck them ‘til their minds broke and all they could think of was him, rub their breasts and pinch their nipples and fuck th-

 **“ _Gods_!”** he winced in pain, having punched himself square in the dome and cracked his knuckles against his fortified helmet. He had to stay in control of himself, think about something more industrious. Maybe he should’ve taken up a productive hobby, like gardening or woodwork? He could plant some seeds after working with his wood.

_He’d work his wood alright._

Okay, you could forgive him for that one surely? It sort of just fell on his lap.

_Fell on his lap…_

_Plant some seeds…_

This was so unbelievably _frustrating_ , his knob at full mast to such lewd suggestions. His entire body was against him for some reason, the ungrateful bastard – what had he ever done to it? Galloway fiddled with his damaged digits, staring into the constantly warping filth of the swamp bog. What would his mother think?

_“You’re a smart young man, Galloway. Art school isn’t the right place for you!”_

_“It’s not a phase mum!” he would retort. “And why are you calling me Galloway when it’s the family name? And why am I naked?”_

_“Oh Galloway, you’re so sexy when you’re defiant.” she’d purr, stripping off her clothes and walking seductively towards him. “Let’s have taboo coitus on your sister’s bed!”_

**“ _Damn it_!”** another loud conk, another snapped finger. The Hollow Knight squeezed it between his knees, hissing through grit teeth. **“How many bones are in this _stupid_ hand anyway?!”**

His member twitched as if shrugging its metaphorical shoulders, apologising for not having the answer. Galloway continued to watch the swamp and tap his feet, regaining some semblance of energy before he returned to his journey.

_“Cum for us.”_

_He couldn’t forget that image._

The marsh was strangely peaceful when you weren’t frantically running through it being chased by blood sucking bugs and boulder slinging brutes. While nature wasn’t inherently peaceful, it was inherently _ordered_ he felt; creatures foraging and keeping a wide berth from eachother in unspoken truce. It was this that made the following denizen stand out.

With a comedic plop a large and bloated head sent ripples through the swamp and sunk to its bottom, breakfast for the leeches. It was quickly followed by its owner, who crumpled to his knees to join his cranium and became _dinner_ for the same leeches. They would be feasting tonight.

No doubt the cause of the recently deceased’s current predicament was the bulky person that stood next to him, an oversized meatcleaver that looked more like a guillotine blade dripping brown blood – at least he _hoped_ it was blood – into the gin and tonic that was the poison pool. Mister or Misses Meatcleaver squatted with all the grace of a street cleaner on his rounds, dipping bare hands to their elbows into the opaque gloop and searching for something.

Soon enough MC fished out the brute’s decapitated head, the first of the leeches already having an enthusiastic go on its oversized nose. MC made a curious sound, inspecting the head and spinning it around like a globe. MC sniffed at it experimentally, seemingly unphased by all the filth.

 _Then he spotted Galloway_.

They stared vaguely at eachother for a few moments, as if the Hollow Knight had caught the meatcleaver warrior at a very bad time indeed. The lonely head slipped out of MC’s cupped hands, the leeches eagerly returning to their appetiser. Galloway had a very strong feeling that his sword and shield wouldn’t be enough to deter this one.

And with that the guillotine wielding menace began to close the gap, seemingly undaunted by the thick waters. The Hollow Knight frantically pulled himself to his feet with weapons in accord, assuming his typical fighting stance – crude, but reliable.

As the gap was closed it became apparent that _he_ was actually a _she_. Probably. Possibly. _Potentially_. Save for a primitive strap of fabric that struggled to contain her unmentionables, the large lady had a certain femininity to her step. Somehow she was curvaceous yet without curves, ladylike but brutish, overweight yet loaded with muscle – his brain wasn’t in the mood for such blatant contradictions.

 **“ _Mildred_!”** she announced butchly as she got closer and closer, the whole of Blighttown seemingly giving way to the top of the food chain **“ _Maneater_! _Kill_ , _eat_!”** her legs were green and black with foul gunk, yet she was unflinching in her advance. Her breasts rippled as she held her chest up proudly, her face shrouded by what seemed to be a burlap sack.

“ ** _Galloway_!” ** he said to her chest, beads of what he hoped were sweat accentuating their absurd size. You’d think he’d been more worried about the whole cannibalisation thing, but this was a man who’d had sex with a pair of oversized spiders not too long ago. After a moment he ripped his eyes away with much reluctance, knowing full well what his hollowed mind was up to. **“Knight. Talk, drink beer. Yeah.”** he confirmed his name and profession, **“… Yeah?”**

Lacking the general expository banter that the spider women possessed, the practically feral woman raised her weapon in a barbaric charge and surged forward with a breathtaking burst of speed. The Hollow Knight raised his shield and tried to deflect the staggering blow, but the force alone was enough to send him stumbling up the slope of the sewer.

Mildred heaved her weapon up with both hands, its blade covered in imperfections and rust. It would be an insult to blacksmiths to even call it a blade – it was a vicious club that _just_ so happened to have a few pointy bits on it.

 _But she didn’t need sharpness to lop off heads_.

_Butcher, and then devour, piece by piece._

Stepping back from the swamp where she held the natural advantage Galloway regained his composure, the strong but stupid woman going in for the exact same slam she’d used before. It was easy to sidestep, but a right hook to his face wasn’t which sent his helmet flying off and left him reeling once again. Mildred pulled back her fist now red with her own claret, unfazed by the pain of her fresh wound.

The undead rolled his eyes, dropping his shield and holding the haft of his weapon with both hands. A fat naked cannibal chick and a knight without pants on having a bloody brawl covered in mud. Was this someone’s fetish fuel?

A swing and a miss Mildred’s weapon was lodged in the concrete, throwing her off just long enough for Galloway to get behind her and throw himself full force into her exposed flank. The large woman wasn’t even fazed, turning to look at him with an expression of mild bewilderment that showed even through her sack hood. The Hollow Knight dropped his sword with a sigh, fed up with the situation and knowing full well what was about to happen. **“Oh, _go on_ then.”**

One mangy blood-coated fist was all it took to grab him by the throat and heave him into the hair. His legs kicked and flailed like a puppy being held over water as she throttled him about, feet futilely bouncing off her podgy gut. Mildred looked up at him curiously, as if amused by his continued resistance.

Her grip tightened, as did his vision. That irresistible urge to give up and sleep tongued at his ears like a forward auntie on your sixteenth birthday, patiently waiting for the inevitable snap of his neck and the thud of his body as it rolled into the swamp water to join a gazillion others.

To be honest it was probably the hollow within him that thought his next action would be a good idea, as in one more act of defiance he opened his gob and bit into the woman’s wounded knuckles with all the force of a vise. She howled in sudden pain, her impenetrable hide having its one weak point exploited.

He was released and fell to the ground, throat in abject agony but not quite broken yet. Dazed and oxygen starved he lunged forward again, the preoccupied brute of a woman too caught up in her own problems to notice in time. While his tackle didn’t move her far, a combination of unstable footing and her grounded cleaver being in the way tripped her up and sent the two of them falling back through the open grate of the sewer.

They landed in a heap in a large, circular dip that no doubt acted as a sewer junction in the glory days of the Age of Fire. The defeated Mildred cushioned his fall and whimpered like a poorly cow, seemingly incapacitated by the Hollow Knight she dwarfed. Said Hollow Knight rose to his knees atop her, triumphant.

 **“T-That’ll teach you.”** he stuttered, choking and sputtering. He looked down upon the woman he straddled, her hands raised in supplication; completely at his mercy. Galloway’s shoulders heaved as dank air filled his lungs. **“Fat piece of…”**

_“Fat piece of…?”_

_You’re hungry, aren’t you?_

Those paralysing pangs rose to the forefront, egging him on like kids on a playground. He’d won this battle, and now it was his right to claim his dues. He could do whatever he pleased to this woman – it’d take a flick of his finger to strip her completely. His eyelids fluttered, blood surging everywhere he didn’t want it to be at the moment.

_But the hollow wanted it._

_The hollow needed it._

Mildred flinched as with a singular movement the one piece of fabric that bound her chest was released, her ample bust spilling out in all its glory. The Hollow Knight wiggled his fingers as he reached outward, desperate to cop a feel. What she lacked in shape and pertness she made up for in sheer size, and it appealed to something deep and primal within him.

He started hesitantly, less out of care for the woman below him but more out of inner conflict. His reason still whined that this was immoral and abnormal, but it was quickly being overpowered by his yearning. _Fuck_ , they were so _big_. He couldn’t even fit them in his hands.

He heard a horny moan ring out through the sewer, and it took him a moment to realise that it came from Mildred. Her chest heaved expectantly, her sounds changing with his movements like a fascinating musical instrument. He pinched and he fondled and he flicked and he squeezed, his neglected need begging for a go.

 **“No you don’t.”** he snapped as her hands began to move, releasing her breasts and holding down her arms. She reeled her neck back in alarm, but he could tell that beneath her hood there was a perverted grin – she wanted to be conquered like an animal by her mate. She’d found someone worthy of fucking her. Like the animal she saw in him he pressed harder, feeling her nipples brushing against his chest. **“ _I’m_ in control here.”** he declared. **“Not _you_.”**

He was so stiff at the moment it was unreal, his dripping cock rubbing futilely against her tubby stomach as he thumbed her tits. This felt even _better_ than Quelaag if that was even possible, it must be from the sheer taboo of it – this was something he shouldn’t have found sexy in _any_ shape or form, yet here he was with a raging boner over this woman he had conquered. The sisters at least had the beauty of their dainty human bodies; Mildred in contrast was bulky and filth-caked with no elegance to be found.

He needed to fuck her.

Right _now_.

Returning to keeping her arms down he awkwardly shuffled back, leaving a trail of precum from her belly to her pubic mound. As he wrestled his uncooperative cock and pressed its tip against her welcoming lips, he didn’t even think about hygiene – it looked so wet and warm and inviting, beckoning him right in. He could fuck her with reckless abandon, and she would _love_ him for it.

Leaning against her dominantly he pushed himself forward, neither her comfort nor limits crossing his mind as he clutched onto her shoulders and began to thrust. Her squeals and howls were sweet music to his ears, reverberating throughout the sewer and no doubt spilling out into Blighttown for all to hear.

 _He_ was fucking Maneater Mildred.

 _He_ was in command here.

 _He_ was powerful.

 _He_ called the shots.

 _It felt liberating_.

With every lewd slap of flesh on flesh her breasts bounced in a circular motion, smacking against eachother again and again in an almost hypnotic manner. Her thick ass reared from the force of his assault, struggling to withstand his unrelenting charge.

He put his all into it, embracing the hollow beast within. **“Moan, _come on_.”** he snarled hoarsely, squeezing her shoulders tightly. **“Let them _hear_ you.” ** he pressed, trading pure speed for depth to try and eke out more mewls. He could feel the juices slipping down his shaft and over his balls, all sticky and wet with _her_ arousal. **“Let them _know_ who’s fucking you.”**

Maybe those words were a massive turn on, because as she gave him that _exquisite_ moan he longed for her strong legs and muscled arms wrapped around his person and locked him close. Pulled against her he got a sudden face full of tits, which continued to jiggle and push against him as he thrust in and out of paradise.

They were damp and slick with sweat – and hopefully _just_ that.

That’s what he would’ve been worried about if he was still thinking straight, but the fact that he kissed and licked and lapped between her cushioned breasts just went to show how far gone he was. She didn’t taste or smell _clean_ in any shape of the imagination, but it was good all the same. It tasted like _sex_ in a way only a degenerate sex obsessed hollow could find satisfying.

This wasn’t the taste of a human, it was the taste of a monster.

And it drove him _crazy_ for her.

Mildred’s great thighs tightened around his waist, her feet pressing at his butt and encouraging him to go for the kill. Her hands pressed at the back of his head, scratching and tugging at his matted hair as she smothered him between her breasts. She began to meet his thrusts with her own, twisting her hips again and again to wring his cock and get him over the edge. There was no finesse here; pure brute force, desperate to push him over the edge and milk her reward as she bucked and fucked.

 **“ _Inside_!”** she commanded loudly, crushing him between her breasts. His groans were stifled by her flesh, his ears muffled by her cleavage. **“ _Cum_ in Mildred, _yes_! _Cum_!”**

A loud, feral, exaggerated, and incredibly drawn out moan graced Mildred’s lips as the Hollow Knight released his load, his thrusts slowing to accommodate the powerful shots of semen that filled the woman’s body. Yet Mildred continued to rock and twist, Galloway’s eyes watering from the sheer pleasure of it all as she made sure to squeeze every last drop from his cock.

His spasms finally subsided and she gradually reduced her movements to a slow, soothing motion as she continued to massage her partner’s spent member within the velvety walls of her womanhood. Her powerful thighs remained taut, entwining herself with the undead knight who had filled her with so much of his thick white seed.

Calloused fingers continued to play with Galloway’s dirty hair, keeping him nestled and comfortable between her dripping breasts. Assuming that he had fallen asleep from the exertion of their lovemaking, the sack-headed woman eventually chose to join him in a snooze punctuated by loud, comical snoring.

Galloway wasn’t asleep.

He was trapped.

Almost as soon as he’d been satisfied his hollow self had decided to pack his bags and go on holiday to Vinheim, leaving him to deal with the aftermath and an overwhelming sense of anxiety and guilt. He tried his best to wriggle free but the positively beaming Mildred refused to let go, keeping his spent cock inside her and overwhelming all five of his senses with her breathtaking bust.

He couldn’t see, he couldn’t smell, he couldn’t move.

And all he could hear was the calm heartbeat of his satisfied lady, and her dorky snores.

So just to reiterate, he was attached to a large, nude, sleeping cannibal woman who was almost double his size and could crush his neck like a twig if she felt like it. He was also trapped in a plague infested sewer at the bottom of the world with just his boots and gauntlets on, and his knob was buried hilt deep in something that was probably riddled from top to bottom with every disease known to man _and_ gods.

He shrugged his shoulders.

Well, as much as he could in his current predicament.

Maybe this was what he needed? Maybe he should’ve stopped fighting those hollow urges and let them take over more for a change? Maybe this big evil maneating lady was just what he needed, letting him vent out the pangs and urges that his undead form gave him rather than just bottling them up all the time?

Perhaps one day he’d become the king of a revolution against the spider people of Quelaag’s Domain, and with Queen Mildred by his side he’d lead an army of mosquitoes and rock hurlers to victory on the battlefield?

Or maybe he’ll just get killed in an hour or two when she woke up?

Why, maybe he’ll suffocate to death between her breasts in the next five minutes?

Who knows, life is a gamble.

But at least like this it could be a happy one.

Snuggling up to Mildred’s cosy chest he focused on the sound of her beating heart, letting the calming rhythm will him to sleep.

It was the first deep sleep he’d had in decades.

X

 **(A/N):** _Not even the Hollow Knight can resist the T H I C C swamp lady! And really, who can? I’m afraid the future fate of Galloway has to be left to your own imagination, since we can’t have one man hogging all the action!_

_Next time we have a change of scenery and a new hero, as an old gentleman who’s out of pocket desperately finds a way to pay for purple moss and pine resin from a certain merchant of the Undead Burg!_


	3. Undead Merchant (Female)

** PlayerUnknown’s Soulsborne Waifu Compendium **

**(A/N):** Entry three starts with a dear MILF, if you’re into that sort of thing…

Today’s chapter revolves around a gentleman knight by the name of Reginald, a rather polite bloke with oodles of moral character, during his routine shop for resin and mosses. Unfortunately his pockets are a bit light at the moment, and a classic porn plot is in the making!

 **WARNING:** Obvious sexual content, spelling errors, bad language, cringy and heavy dialogue, crude jokes, sex with things that some people might find gross, OC protagonists with little personality, OOC behaviour, old toothless ladies, implied STD jokes, non-lore friendly events, and my first story in around six months and my first LEMON in probably four years!

** Chapter Three: Undead Merchant (Female) **

He was skint, as the common man would say.

Being a man that hailed from one of the slightly more noble families of Astora, Knight Reginald had always been accustomed to having enough coin on his person. If he went to a tavern he’d leave a weighty tip. Somebody offered to tie up his horse? An equally weighty tip. That somebody turning out to be a thief? He’d offer them a pointy tip.

That being the end of his blade.

There was something empowering about always having the right amount of coin on your person. So imagine his surprise when he turned out his pockets and not even moths emerged, literally nothing of worth being on his person. It was rather embarrassing to say the least.

 **“Dearie?”** she asked. **“I need your souls, you know.”**

 **“Apologies, apologies. Give me just another moment.”** he stalled.

Reginald knew a lad who knew a gent who’d once pointed out this isolated little spot in the great aqueduct beside the Undead Burg. Said lad didn’t tell him the details, but he promised that he could find all the supplies he could dream of to keep himself going in these tough times, plus a little extra on the side. It sounded promising to him.

 **“Darling?”** she pressed, the water splashing as she tapped her sandaled foot. **“Aren’t you going to give me my souls?”**

Raising a finger as if with an idea, he said **“Most certainly!”** in a reassuring manner, followed by a far less reassuring utterance of **“Just… Just a bit more time.”**

Boots flooded with algae ridden water, the Knight had traversed the secret route he’d been tipped off on and ascended a spiralling staircase to be met with this – a small alcove barred off with iron railings, and an undead woman who stood patiently within.

At first he’d yelped, poising his sword for action with talisman in accord, yet she’d quickly spoken up. She offered succour in various forms, from poison cleansing mosses to varied resins for all his beast slaying needs. He’d been deliberating over his purchase for hours at this point, his toes forever pruning.

 **“Are you okay sweetheart?”** the undead tilted her head curiously, **“Do you need to sit down?”**

 **“I…  I must have left my purse in my _other_ set of armour.”** he finally settled on, conking his fist against an open palm. He struggled to stare into her beady red eyes, **“Why, they look so similar I must have picked the wrong one! Oh, the _humiliation_!”**

He forced a laugh that rattled his chest, his very own voice box ashamed by his slanderous words. The merchant woman smiled with what few teeth she had, before sweetly replying. **“That’s not a good enough excuse, dearie.”**

 **“No it isn’t.”** Reginald instantly folded, never one for telling lies. **“I was so taken up by your stock that my lack of funds slipped my mind.”** he confessed, sickened by his own lack of currency. What sort of gentleman didn’t have the necessary coin on hand at all times? **“I can only apologise for wasting your time.”**

Blowing a rather unladylike raspberry, the merchant waved her hand dismissively. **“Please, _please_.”** she chortled like one would say ‘ _pish, posh_ ’, **“You can always come back to me, you _handsome_ young man.”**

_Well, not to brag or anything…_

**“But I’m afraid I’m in dire need of these goods, kind madam.”** Reginald insisted, his hands clasped together as in if prayer. **“I could give you my word as a _knight_ that I would return to thee with interest perhaps?”**

 **“No.”** was her instant response. **“I only take it up front, darling.”**

Reginald clutched onto the bars of the railing between them, uncharacteristically desperate. It was hardly befitting of a knight to beg, but at this rate he’d need to do just that. He doubted he could even reach his destination and return with her payment if he didn’t have the resins he required. **“In the land of Carim they have a thing called _loans_ , an-”**

 **“Nooooope.”** she teased, finding a demented enjoyment in leaving a tall and noble fighter high and dry.

The knight wriggled his nose, his bushy moustache wiggling upon his lip. With nothing else to offer he knelt like a lord to his lady, bowing his head in supplication. **“Then I, Knight Reginald of the stately Astora, offer you my service.”** after a few awkward moments of silence he came to realise that as a common born the merchant likely had no clue what that entailed, and he clarified with a hasty addition of **“What do you require of me?”**

She straightened her posture in a mockery of contemplation, tapping a shrivelled finger against her bony jaw. Her decision had been made ages ago. With a hiss of amusement she simply said **“Your sword.”**

A treasured heirloom of his household, a twinkling jewel of the finest titanite sat faceted on the centre of its hilt. It was his most prized possession, but he had offered his word – knight’s honour. With grandeur but a hint of hesitance he drew his blade from its scabbard and pointed its pommel towards her. Stoically he uttered **“My sword.”**

It was pushed away like a baby rejecting its mushy peas, clattering to the ground and almost being ferried away by the torrent of water. **“No, no dear, your _sword_.”** she reiterated, before swapping the emphasis and having another go **“ _Your_ sword.”**

Scrambling for his weapon he clumsily returned it to its sheath with a small sense of relief, which was quickly overpowered by greater confusion.

_His sword._

_What did she mean_?

Was this some sort of euphemism to the common folk? The fur upon his lip continued to wiggle and writhe, as if desperate to take flight. She stood with growing impatience, errant words stuck in her throat and begging to make themselves known.

 **“My loyalty?”** he tried, hand on knee. They were stepping into some pretty heavy territory for people who had only just met. **“My indenture and obedience to you as a knight of the realm?”**

 **“ _No_ , your coc…”** trailing off in deep thought, she returned with a devious smirk not long after. **“Actually… _Yes_ , that would be adequate.”** the water continued to ripple, her feet shuffling in apparent giddiness. **“Does that mean you’d listen to me, sweetheart?”**

Wasn’t that what he was already doing? Reginald bowed his head further, practically upside down at this point. **“Well, as a knight in your service I… Suppose that puts me at your complete disposal. I would be bound to obey your every command le-”**

Triumphant laughter cut him off, **“ _Vee hee_!”** she snickered, clapping her hands together in a strangely adorable manner like she was getting double desserts. **“Will you have to call me ‘ _muh laydee’_?”**

Reginald waited for the reverberating cackles to stop before confirming her words, **“Aye, I suppose I would ma’am.”** he announced, before quietly correcting himself **“… _M’lady_.”**

With a loud, bone grinding creak the bars were suddenly pushed open – it had been a locked door, as if one to a cell for a common criminal. The undead merchant tried to speak as it gradually swung open, but the obnoxious sound overpowered her voice.

_Squeeeeeeeee…_

_… eeeeeeeee.._

_… K._

**“Dea-”**

_Conk_.

The door came to a loud stop against the aqueduct wall.

 **“ _Dearie_.”** she mewled seductively, splashing forward and crudely beckoning him to rise. That he did, six feet and three inches of pure Astoran nobility dwarfing the slouched woman with ease. Leaning uncomfortably close to him she lazily began to rub her palms against his thighs, resting her ear against his barrel like chest. **“Have you ever made _love_ to someone?”**

 **“ _How_ …!”** Reginald stopped himself from shouting in protest, taken aback by such forward words. He was subservient to this woman now, and besides – something about her probing touch and simple voice felt _soothing_ in a way. “ **No. N-No I have not.”**

 **“Hmmm? _Really_?”** she pressed, her explorative hands reaching around and patting his posterior. **“I thought the ladies would be crawling over such a strong, _handsome_ boy.” ** the undead merchant sounded less apologetic and more relieved, eager to use her newfound friend to the fullest, **“And you’re all _mine_ now, darling.”**

Knight Reginald swallowed a long list of things at that moment, chief among them being a great deal of drool that had spontaneously gathered in his mouth. Her daring do had a troubling allure to it, a feeling best described as _fuzzy_ stirring in his chest. 

 **“Take off your belt for me.”** she suddenly commanded, stepping back a foot and staring straight at him. After two double takes and a single flat out ‘ _excuse me?_ ’ she pressed harder, **“Come on, chop chop!”**

Reluctantly he complied, the sheer ridiculousness of the situation flying straight past him. A chorus of jingles and clangs joined the constant echoes of the aqueduct as chain, plate and leather slid down his legs and into the drink.

He was now completely naked from the waist down in front of someone he’d only just met.

This wasn’t a normal turn of events, he was beginning to realise.

Squatting like a curious little girl the merchant woman stared at his exposed member, her gaze critical and meticulating. While appealing to her palate in size and shape, the professionally cut thing drooped and dangled at a nervous half mast.

 **“Oh dearie me, you’re not looking too hard.”** she pouted, the heat of her words caressing his tool in the cold damp of the place. Experimentally she flicked the head with her index finger, watching it flop from side to side at half mast. It stirred ever so slightly as it reeled. **“What’s the matter? Am I not pretty enough for you?”**

Taken aback by her words almost as much as the strange circumstances he found himself in, Reginald nervously stuttered **“O-On the contrary, i-it’s just…”** he bit his lip as she flicked his cock once again, feeling it grow stiffer in all its exposure. It felt incredibly improper – but with that came a rising sense of excitement. For a reserved noble such as he perverted activities were unheard of. **“I-I’m a bit… _Surprised_ is all.”**

 **“So you _do_ think I’m pretty?”** she teased in amusement, her scarred hands grabbing his balls and gently tugging at them like the udders of a cow. He winced in mild ache, but he couldn’t help but watch. **“ _Flirtatious_ young man, dear oh dear!” ** the merchant nuzzled her gaunt cheek against his now complete shaft, squeezing it between her face and his stomach. **“Hmmm, let’s see now…”**

There was a brief pause as she obscured his view, leaning over his cock for the briefest of moments. A thick, warm, dripping wad of spit and saliva drooled from her mouth and pooled on his tip, which she eagerly began to massage and spread across the entirety of his erect shaft. Her hands and his length both slick and slippery, she absently knelt down and pumped away with both of her calloused palms.

 **“Enjoying yourself dearie?”** she sung lustfully, sliding his dick between her index and middle finger. She could feel every bump and groove accentuated by her lubing, every lump and vein rubbing against her digits. He hadn’t answered, no doubt lost for words. **“ _Hmmm_?”**

Switching from the ghostly feeling of her two fingers to the brute force of two hands, she suddenly changed to a wringing motion as she began to twist and tug at Reginald’s glistening member. While the roughness of her grip was eased by the wetness, it still felt rather uncomfortable.

  **“T-That hurts…”** the knight said weakly, embarrassed by the twitchiness that surged through his groin.

 **“ _Muh laydee._ ”** she corrected, continuing her rough play session with little worry for her new toy. **“You’re saying that, but look here darling!”** the undead rubbed her finger against his tip, massaging a healthy amount of precum all over his red and exposed glans. **“ _Vee hee_ , you’re so backed up… I bet it would taste _lovely_.”**

He looked at the ceiling in shame, anxious to admit that her touch had a certain appeal. He’d held hands with a lady only once; a widowed woman who he had led down a staircase to the ballroom. He never even thought that their hands were capable of such brazen and depraved things. But as lewd and dirty as it was, he could feel his pulse rise to a rhythm. A delayed moment of realisation slapped the knight square on the nose, **“Hang on, _taste_?”**

Opening her mouth wide she plunged down like a predator, hungrily swirling her tongue around the entirety of his cock as if savouring a particularly phallic candy. Finger and thumb formed a tight ring and squeezed firmly at the base, leaving his sore and sensitive member to throb in a peculiar blend of pain and pleasure. Muffled by his tool the merchant gazed upwards into his eyes, her own a deep and enigmatic red. After a moment a low murmured turn into a slurred giggle, the vibrations of her laughter sending ripples throughout his length as she slurped a fresh coat of drool.

He could only imagine what sort of faces he was pulling.

While her movements were strong and controlling there was an air of affection to it, as if at this point his pleasure was directly tied to her own. Near toothless gums let her suckle and bite as she saw fit, his cock easily gliding between the scorching confines of her mouth. Every so often she’d tilt her head back ever so slightly, brushing his member against the roof of her mouth and completely swapping the sensations he felt.

_He could feel his jaw trembling._

With a loud pop and single gasp of air, the merchant reluctantly freed his cock from her starved tongue. **“Tell me honestly…You think I've gone to the other side, don't you?”** she pushed, rubbing her thumb between his balls in contemplation. She brushed her non-existent lips against his glans, as if planting it with smooch after smooch. **“That I've cracked my head and gone Hollow? You do, don't you? I can see it in your eyes.”** the undead flicked his testicles once again, prompting a restrained ‘ _ow’_ as they comically bounced off one another. **“You'd trust a patch of moss over me…”**

 **“My dear lady, on my travels…”** Reginald objected, initiating his heroic knight mode.

Only paying the slightest bit of attention, she crooned over and began leaving gentle bites on his sack with her teethless gums. His lips trembled which every pinch, each one spawning a guttural moan as she hungrily tugged at the elastic skin. She gave him the sort of **“ _Hmmm_?” ** you didn’t want to hear from someone when you were about to say something meaningful.

**“Could you… S-Stop for a second? I thought we were having a moment.”**

Reluctantly she freed his testicles from her grasp, staring deeply into his eyes whilst sucking on her precum coated fingers to pass the time. Doing his best to tune out the erotica of such a thing, Reginald began. **“I have traversed half of Lordran over these years, and I have met many strange people. Friendly souls such as you are few and far between.”** he announced, seemingly confusing ‘ _friendly_ ’ with ‘ _absurdly perverted nymphomaniac’._ **“You have done me a good turn. Your wares have pulled many of my colleagues through the darkest of times. And when the shadows grow too heavy for my mettle, I am comforted knowing that I can talk t-”** his cock bounced from side to side again, **“… You aren’t listening are you?”**

 **“Veehee!”** she snickered, playfully slapping his engorged dick against her cheek and sending the gloopy mix of their combined liquids splashing left and right. How _base_. How _lewd._ **“It was just a little _test_ for a big, _biiiig_ young man. You’re a good person. I think I like you.”** she purred with the closest thing to sincerity she could muster, **“And I especially like your _cock_.”** the undead merchant squeezed it at its base, leaving the shaft to twitch and shiver in anticipation. **“And I _know_ it likes me.”**

She dived right in once again, the confused Reginald blinking in confusion as the moment was lost in the wind. **“W-Well… I’m honoured that you feel that way.”** the knight stared down at the undead woman, timidly placing his hands on the top of her head and brushing what little hair she had left. **“Have you… Done this before m’lady?”** he inquired, a brown tuft slipping off her scalp and landing quietly in the water much to his worry. She nipped the flared bottom of his helmet, pinching it between her ridged gums. **“H-Hey!”**

Breaking free once more she pumped vigorously, **“What sort of question is that, dear?”** she pouted in mock offence, not that the knight had any concept of sarcasm. **“How _rude_ of you.”**

The Astoran flushed in shame, **“Pardon me, it’s ju-”** lapping her tongue like a pesky dog on his tip, a powerful shudder cut off his words and diverted his train of thought. Worry became lust in mere moments. **“T-That’s the spot, goodness _gracious_!”**

 **“I’ve sucked plenty of cocks in my time, sweetheart.”** the merchant slurred, adding another few wads of drool to his dick. Torrents of spit and precum drenched it, milky white droplets dribbling down the length of his shaft and dipping off his balls before joining the water flow. **“But it’s been _ages_ since I’ve held something _this_ big. You’re making an old girl’s heart _race_!”**

There was no retort this time, the gentleman knight completely surrendering to the will of the undead woman. She loved all of her toys, but he in particular had a certain charm – the others were fuel by nothing but greed; unkempt crooks and liars reluctantly letting her play her games for the sake of their goods alone.

Yet this Knight Reynolds of Courland or whatever his name had been seemed to genuinely enjoy here efforts, his virgin and noble mind no doubt impressionable and malleable to her antics. There was nothing fake or forced about his actions, no repeated cusses or overblown howls of feigned ecstasy. He wasn’t lying to her in the slightest.

 _It was adorable_.

_He was adorable._

**“You’re thrusting.”** she pointed out with a snigger, rearing her head back ever so slightly and cupping his cock with a hand. Unconsciously his hips continued to thrust into her awaiting palm, the sloppy sound of their lube filling the air. **“You must _really_ like my mouth, _vee hee_!”**

Now very self conscious the knight stopped himself, having fallen into a strange daze under her relentless service.

Having none of that she clung onto his hips, **“No, no, don’t stop.”** she cooed, give his dick another long lick from stem to stern. **“If you like it so much, why not ‘ _ask’_ for more?”**

_‘Ask’, to rhyme with ‘beg’._

His hips slowly began to rock again, much to the merchant’s glee. **“I-I do like it.”** he flushed a deep crimson, admitting such a perverse thing sending a jolt of euphoria through his brain. It felt _lovely_ to let out these feelings. **“Your mouth feels _so_ good on my...”**

 **“Big, _juicy_ cock? _Vee hee_!”** she chortled in a manner that was becoming increasingly endearing to him **. “Tell me what you want to do then.”** as if to give a hint she willed the entirety of his length down her throat with a gulp of strain and effort, before pulling back with a sputter. She was making it impossible to reply, her skills stealing his words. **“Do you want to fuck my face? Fuck my mouth and let me slurp up all your thick, moist _cum_? _Hmmm_? Come _onnnnnn_.”**

Reginald mouthed a quiet ‘ _yes_ ’ under his breath, his head too light and his mind too fuzzy to really respond coherently. Wordlessly he held onto her head and began to thrust away, her bony hands clinging to his legs in supplication.

 _Fuck her throat_.

_Let out all of your cum._

This was almost _too_ easy. The once serene and subtle sounds of her laps and suckles degenerated into a mindless mixture of grunts and gulps as the knight rapidly shoved his cock through her tight throat from tip to base. The merchant would have given a kinky running commentary if she could speak, the knight’s dripping balls slapping against her drool covered chin again and again. The telling twitches of Reginald’s cock revealed that he was finally nearing his limit.

Hitting the Astoran’s legs in frantic warning, the ever worried gentleman snapped out of his lust for the briefest of moments and pulled away in panic. Before he could ask if she was okay she snatched his soaked cock and rest the tip atop the damp folds of her tongue.

She pumped and she pumped, her tongue a warm caress for the knight’s spasming dick. She didn’t just want his bitter contribution, she wanted to taste it all for herself. She wanted it all over her tongue so she could swish it about her mouth. She wanted him to watch as she claimed what was hers.

And within moments he came, thick ropes of pent up cum a deep and pure white filling her awaiting mouth. The undead merchant struggled to catch it all, the viscous liquid overflowing and mingling with her hungering drool.

Milking the final few drops with her thumb, she flashed the contents of her mouth brimming with hot semen to Reginald and made doubly sure that he was watching as she swallowed it all down in a single, loud gulp.

 _There it was_.

_That’s what she wanted to see._

_That deep shudder of ecstasy._

Her tastebuds satisfied she continued to cup her toy’s spent member, refusing to let any remaining drops go to waste.

 **“For such a big, brave knight I thought you’d have a lot more for me.”** she sighed in mock disappointment, pressing her thumb firmly against the underside of his tool and slowly squeezing out a few drips more. Reginald huffed amidst spent groans, prompting a snicker. **“Only _teasing_ dearie, you’ve given little old me so much cum. Did you make all of this just for me?”**

Regaining his knightly character, he wiggled his moustache proudly. **“Throughout m-”** a surge of pain shot through his testicles as she flicked them once more, cutting him off with a yelp - while his words were sweet and from the heart he had _zero_ concept of sex talk, much to the merchant’s chagrin. She mouthed a few words with what stood for her lips. **“… Yes. Y-Yes I did.”**

 _And he wasn’t lying_.

Content with the state of affairs she wobbled to her feet on numb legs, her dress soaked through with water, dribble, sperm and who knows what. Returning to her little enclosure she leant forward to tend to her mosses, her rear swaying from side to side enticingly. **“I’d love to _play_ a bit more today dearie, but I’ve had so much business lately and…”** her hands, still slick with cum and juices, rubbed against the mouldy walls that grew her supply of moss – a collection of strange white patches of similar viscosity sprouting the stalks of youthful fungus. **“… Maybe when I have a bit more _Blooming_ Purple Moss in stock, we can try the _next_ step?” ** she smirked, rising to a stand with a cocked hip.

Reginald blinked, considering the implications of the last twenty seconds as she dutifully went over her wares.

Did she do this with all of her customers?

Did she use their… _Contributions_ … To grow her wares…?

And more to the point, disease cleansing _blooming_ moss for her…?

Filing those thoughts away for another day he said his goodbyes. While taken aback by what he’d just been through, by no means was he dissatisfied. With customer service this good, one had to wonder just why his fellow adventurers had recommended this place in particular. Still, it seemed to end very abruptly.

Just as he turned to leave he continued in a three-sixty spin, raising a hand in wonder. **“… That eternal loyalty thing from earlier… Was that all a joke?”**

 **“Yes.”** she said absently, engrossed in her work.

Reginald did some mental arithmetic, trying to work out just where he was on the mercantile side of things. **“… So could I purchase some resin without any sou-”**

 **“No.”** she answered.

A business mogul through and through, he hung his head in defeat. **“I see.”** he sighed, **“Then I shall return with monies and souls aplenty sometime soon, and trade bountiful wares with you!”**

 **“And fuck me hard against the iron bars?”** she inquired loudly, turning around excitedly with a clump of moss on hand. The unexpected comment sent him into a stammering fit, the merchant chortling in amusement as she closed her gate **“ _Vee hee_ , I can’t _wait_!” ** she ran her hands up and down the railings suggestively, her voice a low purr. “ ** _Come_ again, if you please!”**

With no other ways to express his complete and total bafflement, Knight Reginald of Astora departed silently. He’d met all sorts of undead on his journey through Lordran and held a deep belief that the divide between hollows and humans was a construct and nothing more. Man and undead could live in harmony; could eat together, work together and play together.

And apparently have mind-blowing sex together.

 **“Pull your trousers up sweetie!”** the merchant called a few moments too late, the Astoran stumbling over his bound ankles and falling face first into the drink.

Thanks for the reminder.

X

 **(A/N):** _Well, I don’t know about you but the Undead Merchant seems to have a pretty good strategy for customer loyalty. Nectar Points eat your heart out! As for the blooming moss thing? I think protection would be a good idea…_

_Join us next time where the entire recipe is thrown on its head, as a dim-witted and not at all verbose berserker warrior saves a sweet and thankful Catarinan knightess, who while grateful isn’t particularly eager for a bit of the ol’ sucky sucky!_

 


	4. Sieglinde of Catarina

** PlayerUnknown’s Soulsborne Waifu Compendium **

**(A/N):** Now for someone who could be seen as conventionally cute, if you were _boring_!

Only joking, she’s a tub waifu which makes her top tier by default.

This time we follow the gruff and rugged Bors of the Five Fingers, a barbaric warrior driven by a blinding passion for destruction and a insatiable lust for boobies and butts! Smashing his way through the Duke’s Archives, he might stumble into just the thing he yearns for in the form of a young, curvy Catarinan knightess…

 **WARNING:** Obvious sexual content, spelling errors, bad language, cringy and heavy dialogue, crude jokes, a backwards understanding of what women are into, OC protagonists with little personality, OOC behaviour, tubby helmet ladies, technically rape turning into consensual stuff, non-lore friendly events, and my first story in around six months and my first LEMON in probably four years!

** Chapter Four: Sieglinde of Catarina **

He loved breaking things.

Glass and stone, body and sinew, anything that could be shattered by a swing of his mace or a slam of his malformed battleaxe rarely survived more than a minute under his scrutiny. He once thought that he would be able to find the pinnacle of destruction – one singular being or item that filled him with the greatest of joy as it burst under his blows.

But it wasn’t that complicated.

You could call Bors of the Five Fingers a connoisseur and in some ways an omnivore of sorts; a cultured brute that appreciated the finer details of everything he wrought havoc upon. From the thousands of oak splinters sent flying out of a ravaged dining set to the racket of raining glass gradually degenerating into a feeble tingle, it didn’t matter what he broke.

Only that he broke it.

Again and again.

Even his foes followed the same simple parameters as he towered over them in crude black iron plate, a smooth smack of his mace squeezing foul blood from beasts like tenderising slabs of steak. He saved his battleaxe only for the most challenging of foes, its wicked blade leaving chaos in its wake.

 **“Go on!”** he slurred and taunted, spitting on polished marble. Two armed abominations, the pores of their skin dotted with jagged diamonds, hesitantly approached him with weapons raised. They had been humans once, though Bors neither realised nor cared. **“Have some!”**

Deliberately crushing the skull of his previous victim into a fine paste beneath his mighty heel, he flailed his mace like a common thug would charge up a jawbreaking punch. There wasn’t a single scenario where the creatures’ crystallised kiteshields would be able to absorb the blow full on, but you had to appreciate them for trying.

The frontmost of them took the full brunt of the flanged mace, contorting its shape into a convex art piece as it punctured the creature’s chest. Crumbling what stood for its ribs into a fine powder it flew into its comrade like a ragdoll, pinning them both to the floor in a heap.

Bors licked his lips, resting his mace upon his shoulder. **“Piss weak.”** he muttered, not even bothering to gloat over the rearmost’s awkward predicament. The cruel warrior swung a weighty kick into its cranium, cracking its spine in two and letting its emaciated head bob to and fro upon a now floppy neck.

He loved _breaking_ things.

Not snapping _twigs_.

He’d come to the Duke’s Archives under the impression that it was filled with towering behemoths, supposedly formed of sentient crystal and sparkling diamonds. It would’ve been a hearty challenge to take such constructs head on, beating away at their impenetrable hides. It would be the _wait_ that made it worth it, that precise moment when even the unbreakable burst into shards.

Nothing like that had made itself known so far. Some pussy footed magicians he’d snapped the arms off of, an endless army of worthless peons that mindlessly fell before him like chaff in the wind, but nothing of note. He was beginning to think that this entire foray had been a waste of time.

But he pressed onward, not because he hoped that his prayers would be answered if he persevered, but simply because he had nothing better to do. Or rather, he was too thick-headed to really think of anything else to do. That lack of direction or definitive goal had always been abused back when the world still had its head screwed on tight.

He had a thing for pretty ladies. His widowed pa had always told him to hold them dear and do what they said, and he’d believed him like the doormat he was. They’d strung him along more times than he’d care to admit with their wiles and their words and their nice perfumes; it just took a word and a smile. The shit he’d gotten himself into for women, and the shit he got in return, good grief.

They’d always lie to him, and he always fell for it; ‘ _just this once it will be different, she’s a good girl’_ , his mind would say. But he was just some dumb gullible muscle that they could play around with, and they knew that no matter how far they went he wouldn’t dare to upset them because he _loved_ them all. And so he’d take the fall again and again, throwing his prospects away for the hope that perhaps one day they might look up to him with sparkling eyes and say:

_“Thank you.”_

_“Well done.”_

_“You’re a good person.”_

That never happened.

And that’s why he hated loving them.

Which made what happened next a tad bit awkward.

His conscious mind reflecting in monologue, his unconscious mind continued to pull him through the Archives with nary a bead of sweat. Bors wasn’t quite sure how deep he was within the swirling intestines of the enigmatic libraries, but he’d found himself upon a sprawling green courtyard of sorts. Trees dotted it like pocks on teenage skin, but it was something greater that stirred him to action.

Lumbering about like a herd of elephants were three hulking giants, encrusted in gems and glimmering in the sun’s rays. Their bodies clicked and clunked as they made their illogical rounds, two cyan fellows following a golden leader as they circled the same patrol route repeatedly for seemingly no reason. Were they artificial beings, programmed to guard this single patch of land?

This aroused the want for wanton carnage that was always eager to surface in Bors of the Five Fingers’ dim-witted mind, separating brief moments of calm and clarity with long stretches of berserk rampage. There was no better word for what he would become when battle whipped him up into a frenzy, fury clouding his already clouded judgement with the desire – no, the _need_ – to destroy.

A screech of war that would probably be written as something along the lines of **“ _HURRRRAAAAAARRRRRGHHHHHHUHFFF_!” ** stirred the three golems from their lethargy, the mighty Bors literally hurling his mace straight at them like a huntsman’s bola as he fumbled for his oversized battleaxe. The mace became embedded in a tree trunk mere inches to the right of the trio, splintered bark eager to make way for it.

The ensuing brawl could be best described as bedlam, the axe wielding lug fighting with neither grace nor discipline but rather throwing himself recklessly at the towering giants as if such an assault would instil them with terror. Battered and bruised Bors exchanged blow after blow with the creatures, each wound he received merely adding to his lust for destruction.

He felled the first with a swipe under the legs, the mighty thing’s tiny toes failing to maintain balance on such soft grass footing. Smashing against the earth and crushing its face under its own weight, the golem tumbled down the slight incline of the yard and rolled to a stop on the far end without its head to accompany it.

The scourge of the Five Fingers held the detached head aloft, the now lifeless blue gemstones fading into a dull grey. With a giddy exhalation he smashed it against the ground like a firebomb, basking in the ensuing mist of crystalised dust.

Mayhem returned in earnest, yet the constructs continued to fight mechanically and without inspiration. Had the loss of their brother meant nothing to them? Clubbing the golden leader about the chest with the flat of his axe, Bors howled with delight as the clumsy thing stumbled atop its compatriot and flattened him into a fine powder within moments. The grains of diamond were still floating in the wind as he brought his axe down on the flailing survivor’s back once, and then twice, and then thrice like an ineffectual lumberjack.

 **“ _Die_!”** he guffawed goofily, biting his tongue amidst growing enthusiasm. He was slowly but surely making a dent, and he knew he was approaching the exquisite breaking point. His lungs ached and his head thumped but he kept at it, **“ _Die_!” ** he repeated, **“Die, die, fuckin’ _die you prick_!”**

Whether or not the golden golem did it willingly, it eventually complied with the maniac’s commands and shattered in two perfectly down the middle like a nestling doll from Zena. The piercing sound was glorious, the behemoth finally falling slack beneath his heel. As it faded into dust with a whoosh of wind like all the others he couldn’t help but chuckle, gazing at the skies and basking in the glow of victory.

But then he heard a voice.

It was muffled at first, his frenzied mind and ringing ears still too excited to discern what was being said. He tried his best to focus on it, bending forward and resting his hands on his thighs as he drew deep breaths. His tongue was sore, it’d only just hit him.

 **“It was you who rescued me?”** the voice said, pausing only to continue without prompt. **“Why, thank you.”**

Bors of the Five Fingers searched for the source of the sound and spun in its direction, his axe buried amongst diamond dust on the groud. He found the source of the voice a literal foot away from him.

A short, stocky person clad in distinctly curved armour.

A short, stocky _woman_ clad in distinctly curved armour.

That’s how he met Sieglinde of Catarina.

Sieglinde of Catarina was, as if her name didn’t show it, a knightess of the Catarinan kind. She introduced herself verily with a slight bow, **“I am Sieglinde of Catarina.”** she said, **“I don’t know how I ended up in that crystal, but… I must thank you again for your rescue.”**

Her hero, towering and festooned in jet black armour, looked upon her with bated breath. It was the sort of look you’d give a squirrel when it froze mid-step, and like a squirrel she stared at him behind her helm with a somewhat anxious expression. The man’s chest heaved with breath, the adrenaline of battle having filled his every muscle.

 **“It wasn’t _terrible_ in there, but I could hardly move.” ** she tried to explain, not even sure how long she’d spent captive.

Her limbs stiff and weighed down by her armour, she illustrated her sorry state by hopping on the spot ever so slightly to try and will the blood back into her extremities. It would have looked incredibly silly to any onlooker, but thankfully the only one present seemed to be a bit out of touch with reality at the moment. She counted her blessings, twiddling her fingers nervously.

“ **May I ask your name, sir?”** Sieglinde asked quietly, having still not heard a single word from the foreboding figure before her. He looked incredibly dangerous, and she hoped that she wasn’t to be his next victim. **“Only it was you who saved me, and it would be right to know it.”**

He growled at her.

A guttural growl, more like a frisky hound than a starved wolf.

She certainly felt like a sheep under his unrelenting gaze, and it was at this particular moment that she realised that her blade and shield were absent. Had they been lost when she was initially captured by the strange golem giants? **“A-Ah…”** she stammered, a little hot under the helmet. **“I didn’t mean to pry, sir. Forgive me.”**

As if in response the muted man knelt for his axe, his eyes remaining fixed and unblinking as he slowly heaved it about and rest it upon his broad shoulder. Was he threatening her? Did _he_ feel threatened by her?

_Don’t flatter yourself Sieglinde._

**“I must think of someway to repay you.”** the Catarinan thought aloud, not being the sort who allowed herself to get into debt. Father had always taught her that letting your debts stack up showed a lack of integrity, and she wasn’t about to let him down. **“Only I am without coin or… Well, _anything_.”**

The hulk began walking towards her with a deliberate slowness, his head tilting to one side and his hips pushed forward ever so slightly as if to bring attention to his groin. His fingers drummed on the haft of his weapon as he moved closer and closer, and for some reason the knightess found herself backpedalling.

 _“He saved me_.” _she thought._

_“He won’t hurt me.” she insisted._

**“Are you-”** there was a dull conk as she hit something hard, her hero having backed her into a far corner of the yard. If she felt small before, she felt _miniscule_ now – he crooned over her dominantly, his face silhouetted by the sun at his back and casting her in shadow. **“… A-Are you _well_ , sir?”**

He rapped his knuckles against her chest, the rattle of alloy prompting a snarl of distaste. **“Strip.”** he muttered coarsely, his breaths still deep and husky. With the washing away of battle came a whole new surge of energy – searing _lust_ , in need of satiating no matter the cost. He raised his voice, repeating his command to her. **“ _Strip_.”**

 **“I-I beg your pardon…?”** Sieglinde stammered in disbelief, the first word to come out of the man being the request – nay, the _demand_ \- to undress before him. She took a moment to process what he’d just said; he wanted her to _strip_ for him? **“Goodness, but that would be…”** she took in their surroundings, mud and grass and leaves dominating the scenery. There was a frog in her throat, **“ _H_ - _Here_?”**

 **“Strip _now_.” ** he insisted, pressing his crotch against the protruding stomach of her platebody. His face was as uncomfortably close as it could be, in spite of her massive spherical headpiece. **“I wanna see your _tits_.” **

Deeply sickened by such depravity, what had originally been an admittedly scared appreciation for his rescue had become a deep disdain and disgust within moments. This man was no hero; he was a sex obsessed cur! A sex obsessed cur with a rather large _axe_ at his disposal!

She sunk against the wall, unaware that every word her cute little voice spoke only made him long for her body all the more. **“This is barbaric!”** she squeaked in protest, her voice cracking mid sentence, **“I-I have my _pride_ , as a kni-”**

Suddenly he lashed out, hungry hands wrestling for a grasp on the clasps of her hereditary plate. She struggled as best as she could in such a narrow space, wiggling and writhing and fruitlessly slapping her palms against his ebony chest.

 **“Let go!”** she cried, as if that would stop him at this point. The strap of her pauldron snapped in the brief scuffle with a comical ‘ _pong’_ , her panic plateauing as she fumbled for the loose piece of armour. There was nothing she could do now but submit. Sieglinde’s heart sunk a full metre, ashamed by both the man before her and her own weakness. **“ _F-Fine_ , just…”** she shook her head weakly, letting the pauldron clatter to the dirt. **“T-The helmet stays on, okay?”**

Bors backed away not out of respect, but rather out of eagerness as his arousal urged him to get to the good part. It was fun to play with your food, but playtime was over. He snickered to himself lowly as the young Catarinan reluctantly began to strip herself down, pulling off her greaves and gauntlets as slowly as she could to try and delay the inevitable.

He twisted the handle of his axe tauntingly, reminding her that it wouldn’t be a very good idea to make him cross. He had no intention of hurting her, but it wasn’t like she knew that was it?

Sieglinde shyly removed her plate, the unhooked casket of metal instantly clattering to the floor like a tower of matchsticks and freeing her breasts from captivity. Yelping in surprise at her sudden nudity she miserably tried to contain her spilt cleavage with her forearm, pressing her thighs together and shielding her womanhood with her free hand. As promised, she had stripped herself down completely – sans her oversized helmet, from which a trembling voice echoed. **“O-Oh goodness…”** she shuddered, struggling to keep her wayward bust contained. She glared at him, detesting his audacity. **“There, _happy_?**

Her liberator stared her over like she was a marble statue from the halls of Anor Londo, his lips curling into a smug smirk. Sieglinde fidgeted under his scrutiny, unintentionally swaying her hips from side to side. She didn’t like being stared at so voraciously, it made her heart flutter and her skin crawl. **“D-Don’t stare so much...”** she murmured, her bare toes wiggling in the dewy grass.

Obviously that only made him stare more, the discomfort of the young woman pleasing a peculiar palate years of teenage sexual repression had formed. Smitten by her unique physique, he swung his axe to the dirt – causing her to jump and jiggle in fear – and leant against its pommel like a cleaner’s broom. **“Twirl.”** he commanded, particularly enamoured with her somewhat tubby stomach. She did nothing, lowering her head reluctantly. Bors repeated himself with a snarl, **“ _Twirl._ ”**

She did what he commanded, clumsily shuffling on the slippery grass as she spun around in a wobbly circle and gave him a good view of her figure in the process. The brute nodded in amusement, her juicy hips and large, wobbly posterior in particular grabbing his eye. **“Nice arse.”** he said in a less than gracious way, containing a smug snicker. **“Nice, chubby and cute. Like the rest of you.”**

 **“I-I’m not chubby…”** she flushed, strangely concerned with what the man who rescued her thought of her. Sieglinde had always been incredibly self-conscious about her waist – she wasn’t fat or overweight in the slightest, frequent sparring and exercise dominating her life as a warrior. However, being from Catarina she naturally took from their festive diet and unique physique; while a nation of seasoned warriors their meals were hearty and filling, and everyone she grew up around had an affinity for a refreshing _Siegbräu_ after every dinner from a young age. She, like all her countrymen, had a natural bulk about her as a result, and it always embarrassed her on her travels across Lordran. It wasn’t easy being the ‘ _large_ ’ girl all the time. Her arm was growing tired, her tight grip over her cleavage losing its strength and exposing more and more to the pervert’s probing eyes. **“Can I put my armour back on? Please…?”**

Bouncing breasts, jiggling bottoms, meaty thighs, shy dispositions, a bit of tub going about the belly, Bors ticked off his mental list joyfully. Just imagining it was enough to turn his bandit knife into a Zweihander, and here it was in the flesh. Call him peculiar – which he was in _many_ ways – but a girl with something to hang onto would always beat the sort of twigs that populated the Five Finger Delta.

 **“ _Shit_.”** he mumbled to self, his need screaming at him for relief. His axe cluttering to the floor he quickly paced up to her with a peculiar gait, as if his balance had been burdened by a newfound weight. The black armoured lug placed his hands atop her shoulders, noticing that there was some _meat_ to be found even there – something to pinch and squeeze to his leisure. Before she could even process what he was doing Sieglinde was pushed down to the ground firmly, sinking to her knees and coming face to face with his crotch as he fumbled at his belt.

_Is he…?_

His bulging member burst out of the confines of his armour, flopping against her helmet and resting against its cold iron as it trembled with overflowing lust. **“A-Ah…”** the knightess exhaled, flinching anxiously as he slowly nudged his dick against the grooves of her helm. This was _humiliating._ **“I don’t like this…”** she murmured, her protests falling upon deaf ears. Holding his cock by its base he whipped it against the helm with three wet splats, his oozing precum dripping all over it. **“Promise to be _gentle_ with me… Okay?”**

Turned on all the more by her unintentionally kinky words, a groaning Bors pulled her tiny hands to his length and began to jerk himself off with her delicate palms. It was incredibly awkward to get her to cooperate with him, but just _this_ was enough to get him shuddering. He breathed deeply, the discomfort already fading away. Sieglinde squeezed her fingers a tad, a restrained growl of approval from her liberator filling her face with red. The noises he was making sort of made her _happy_.

_She wanted him to make more._

Freeing her hands from his grasp he relinquished control, expecting the kneeled Catarinan to continue to pump his throbbing cock. She had absolutely no idea what she was really doing as she slowly tugged away, pulling his foreskin over his tip only to bring it back down. There was a pungent odour about it, the mix of sweat and precum strangely hypnotic to her within her poorly ventilated headpiece. Bors began to thrust into her awaiting palms, resting his hands atop her helmet.

Was she doing it wrong or something?

_Maybe he really liked it?_

She thought she was doing okay…

_He didn’t hate it, did he…?_

Suddenly he pulled his dick away, falling to his knees and pressing himself against her; unable to contain himself. His large, probing hands aggressively groped her body as he nuzzled hornily against her tits, breathing hot air against her freezing skin. She winced in surprise at such sudden contact, her hero hungrily exploring her ample bust. Unconsciously her hands patted around his lap blindly, finding his twitching cock and continuing their work. **“C-Calm _down_.” ** she said quietly, his hands tracing the curve of her back. She’d always been a bit ticklish there. **“I’m not going anywhere or anything…”**

The tracing ten fingers of the man from the Five Fingers moved lower and lower, until finding the grand prize and clinging to the Catarinan’s soft, squishy ass. His powerful digits began to knead and rub, playing with her sweet cheeks. Sieglinde couldn’t help but sway her hips in response, playfully resisting his assault when deep down she’d surrendered to his whims long ago.

Hot, wet warmth sent a shiver up her spine as her hero’s two-pronged assault entered its next phase, his tongue lapping away at her pink, puffy nipples. Beneath her helm she bit her lip to contain a moan, having found a good rhythm with the rock hard cock between her hands. He swapped nipples, rapidly flicking it about before…

_His teeth…?_

**“ _N-Nuh_!”** she moaned loudly, her legs wobbling with uncontained pleasure. Trying to regain her composure she squeezed his cock tightly, pushing her chest forward and smothering the brute between her breasts. He certainly liked that, breathing in her scent. Sieglinde pouted, **“Don’t be so _rough_ with me. That hurt…”**

 _It hurt so good_.

Within moments she freed one hand and brought it to the back of his head, lightly pressing him against her tits and encouraging him to be just as rough as he had been ten seconds ago despite herself. Bors continued his assault, loudly slurping and suckling her nipples and aggressively cupping her ass.

What was happening to her? Wasn’t she disgusted by all of this a second ago? Where did all her reluctance go?

_Maybe deep down she was just a slut that wanted to feel good?_

_Sieglinde of Catarina, knightess of a proud noble family, well behaved and desperate for a good fuck._

A loud spanking sound of hand on flesh stirred her from her thoughts, causing her to yelp in pain and surprise. **“H-Hey!”** she groaned, her right ass cheek glowing a slight red in pain. Bors gently patted the afflicted area, a dull sting spreading across her bottom. **“Warn me next time…”** she sighed soppily, only to shyly push out her posterior for another slap.

Within an instant he spanked her left cheek just has hard, prompting an adorable squeak from the knightess. She wiggled her tush in delight, the kinky cur of a man before her spreading her aching cheeks and experimentally prodding her dirty ring with his fingers.

Sieglinde could feel her own arousal now, overflowing from her centre and permeating her mind. She was struggling to contain herself, rubbing her thighs together to try and cope with the ache. She wanted it _so_ bad right now, even if this brute had forced himself upon her.

But she promised father that she would save herself for the right time. She couldn’t give _that_ away so willingly, she had to resist the temptation. The only one that could take her virginity from her would be the one she married.

 _Although to be honest she’d marry him right now if she could_.

Moans echoing within the confines of her helmet, Sieglinde breathed sharply. **“T-This feels sort of nice…”** she murmured the understatement of the century, Bors having changed his focus entirely on her ass. Even she had stopped pumping away, almost paralysed by his manly touch. He wasn’t being gentle at all, kneading her red cheeks like dough before clenching them tightly in his fists. She grumbled to herself quietly – it felt good and all, but she _really_ preferred a nice hard spanking.

_… Did she really just think that?_

Suddenly releasing her from his grasp Bors rose to his feet. The knightess was hit by the sudden cold of his absence and wanted him and his warmth close again, but he didn’t offer a command and so she remained on her knees. He furiously began to masturbate over her, resting his balls atop her helmet as he fapped away. “ **I-I sure hope no one can see us…”** she thought aloud. He growled like the animal he was, rubbing faster and faster and occasionally slapping his cock against her visor and leaving strings of precum.

Was he about to cum?

Wasn’t she supposed to do something?

 **“Y-You’re coming? Ummm, _okay_ I’ll…”** the naïve Catarinan glanced back and forth, having no clue what she was meant to do at this point in spite of her enthusiasm. After a moment of thought she fumbled for her damp drool-coated breasts, holding them up and fondling them in a way she thought was seductive. She couldn’t believe she was about to say this to a stranger, but with a stammer she urged **“ _C_ - _Cum on my tits_!”**

But he wasn’t there yet, not even close. Bors shook his head with effort, still furiously jerking away at the sight of her. Sieglinde was incredibly flustered by this – what was the matter? Did she do something wrong? Did she not look good enough? She placed her hands on her lap, arms upper arms squeezing her breasts together, and she waited.

 _Awkwardly_.

… _This was too much._

 _You want him. You want him to fuck you dry_.

Staring at his rock hard cock in all its glory was enough to make her flutter. What would it be like to be forced down by that big raging bull and just fucked relentlessly? How loud would she yelp and how much would she shudder? It would be _ecstasy_ for him to fuck her into the dirt, slapping and spanking her ass with every thrust until she was a silly mess.

She was getting lightheaded, her giddy fingers dipping and prodding and rubbing and swirling deep within the confines of her womanhood as she watched him fuck his hand like an animal. It wasn’t enough to satisfy her growing wetness, she needed his big fat _cock_.

His ejaculation came suddenly for the both of them, his virile dick releasing years upon years of sexual frustration in ten powerful spurts. It was at this point that Sieglinde began to regret her refusal to remove her helmet, much of his spunk splattering uselessly upon heavy iron instead of on her face and tongue where it rightfully belonged.

 **“You got it all over my helmet…”** she berated as he rest his spent member atop it with a deep sigh of satisfaction. Canals of cum began to dribble down the curvature of her helm, following its grooves and dripping onto her breasts. She squeezed them tightly between her arms, letting his hot jizz pool between her cleavage. **“Well.”** she whispered, timidly giggling at the thought **“I-I’m not _cold_ anymore, at the very least.”**

The two remained like that for a few moments, Bors slowly milking the last remnants of his orgasm out onto her helm as the lust washed over them and permeated the air for just a tad bit longer. Sieglinde felt like she could stay like this forever.

_For about thirty seconds._

Realisation struck mere moments after the lust settled, as the Catarinan began to process what she’d just gone through.

Oh gods, she was covered in sweat, spit and cum!

_How base! How slanderous! How tarty!_

Her slapped bottom stung from the cold air alone!

_Dross! Terrible! Foul!_

She’d just let a complete stranger force himself upon her! What was wrong with her? What would dad think?

_And not only that, but she’d loved it!_

Oh dear, oh _dear_ , she’d be in a right pickle if he ever found out…

Bors of the Five Fingers fiddled with his belt quietly, now spent and sexless as was typical of men. She called out to him, **“Excuse me, sir!”** she pardoned herself, grabbing his attention. He looked down at the woman, his spunk still pooled between her breasts. One had to wonder what would happen if she let go of them. **“This is a secret between you and me… D-Don’t tell anyone, _okay_?”**

The black armoured brute glared at her antisocially, before shrugging his shoulders and muttering **“Whatever.”**

Taking that as a yes, she sighed with relief. As her liberator pulled out his axe and mace from their respective spots, she bowed her head in thought. Was it strange that that his strong silence, crude accent and sudden ignorance to her presence had a certain… _Allure_ to it? Rubbing her knees together awkwardly, she considered her current state of undress.

She felt strangely unsatisfied.

Turning to leave in search of new things to destroy, Bors strapped his battleaxe to his back and kept his mace on hand for any stragglers in the archives. His business was done here.

 **“S-Sir!”** the pretty, chubby woman called out to him. He turned his head as he walked, having almost forgotten that she existed.

Sieglinde, still on her knees, wiggled her tush flirtatiously. She remembered his compliments; ‘ _nice, chubby and cute. Like the rest of you’_. It was just a simple request, surely he wouldn’t mind? **“C-Could you perhaps… Spank me one last time?”**

Bors of the Five Fingers grunted as he came to a stop, looking back at the nude Catarinan and her cum glazed breasts. With a roll of his eyes he turned back around, lobbing his mace away and lodging it within a _second_ tree. **“No helmet this time.”**

He hated loving women.

X

 **_(A/N):_ ** _Maneater Mildred VS Sieglinde of Catarina, primal T H I C C VS shy T H I C C, take your pick readers!_

_Next time we wrap up the first “arc” of Compendium stories with everyone’s favourite trap god waifu, who needs to demonstrate his authority to the Darkmoon Knights when one of his most loyal men blasphemes!_


	5. Dark Sun Gwyndolin

** PlayerUnknown’s Soulsborne Waifu Compendium **

**(A/N):** The Dark Souls I arc of PlayerUnknown’s Soulsborne Waifu Compendium comes to a close with one of those fan favourites that people secretly pretend to not be into! But come on, we’re all a little bit gay for him… N-No homo…

Silver Knight Martin, Blade of the Darkmoon, stars as our man of the hour today, who after years of loyal servitude and attachment to the Dark Sun cannot resist the temptation to break his oath! No doubt his god will have a suitably kinky “punishment” involved…

 **WARNING:** Obvious sexual content, spelling errors, bad language, traps/boy on boy, cringy and heavy dialogue, ye olde Englishe on steroids, crude jokes, an attempt at making someone intentionally cute and dorky, not really doing the “punishment” thing promised in the A/N, loosely implied drugging, OC protagonists with little personality, OOC behaviour, non-lore friendly events, a whole lot of frotting, and my first story in around six months and my first LEMON in probably four years!

** Chapter Five: Dark Sun Gwyndolin **

He knew his boundaries.

Knowing your limits was part and parcel when it came to servitude, and it was a point that he stressed in every waking moment. In swearing an oath you are bound by honour, and to break your sacred word would be akin to announcing that your very soul was without a shred of decency.

But that wasn’t to say that he never _thought_ about it. To be perfectly honest, he _thought_ about it even as he performed his daily duties. It was one of the greatest ironies of the forbidden - the more he told himself that it would be dubious and decadent to dismiss his vows, the more he hungered to try.

 _Just a little bit_.

_What was the worst that could happen?_

Blade of the Darkmoon and sworn vanguard of the city of Anor Londo, Silver Knight Martin’s single great trait was his undying obedience to the cause he served. He never doubted the machinations of the Dark Sun who commanded him, nor did he truly understand them; was it his place to question the blessed word of his deity?

Presently he patrolled the ramparts of the city of gods like so many other Silver Knights, their muted vigil a constant over the lifeless kingdom. Few dared to lay siege to the impregnable keep’s walls even now, and one had to wonder if the vile foes of Gwyn feared the power of his mighty legions.

 _Or if they even existed anymore_.

_And heresy grew from idleness._

There were few things more petrifying than a once bustling kingdom made empty. At times Martin froze mid step as he marched across decaying ivory, convinced that his echoing footfalls were that of an infiltrator ready to pounce. That very sensation had just rippled through his mind this very moment, and he came to a complete halt.

And then he listened to that sound.

The sound of _nothing_.

For countless years it had been all he’d heard – that fuzzy ring, punctuated by the steady rhythm of his stomping greaves and rattling plate. The only respite that came to his soul were the words of the god he served, who had sworn to protect him in exchange for his own shield and spear; a pact to preserve them both.

He had never gazed upon the visage of Dark Sun Gwyndolin, youngest child of the Lord of Sunlight from whom his name was derived. The god shrouded himself behind smoke and mirrors, content with giving his soft and well-spoken commands faceless and alone. Martin believed he did this out of a humble sense of honour, stressing to his Blades that to serve the Darkmoon was to be a shadow of his father and bountiful sister Gwynevere, not he. The Dark Sun did not see himself worthy of worship; he was merely a vessel for the will of his betters.

Yet the Silver Knight refused to accept such a coy stance. He had not pledged his life to a Lord of Cinder nor an absent Princess who had abandoned her homeland before blight had even struck. Martin served the Dark Sun Gwyndolin, and him alone.

 _Gwyndolin_ was his god.

 _Gwyndolin_ was his idol.

And he would have it no other way.

It was _Gwyndolin_ who had given him purpose.

It was _Gwyndolin_ who had remained dutiful even now, in the end times.

It was _Gwyndolin_ who was _worth_ fighting for.

These thoughts were what brought him full circle as he returned to Darkmoon Tomb, descending its many steps and striding across its worn red carpet. He knelt prostrate as he _always_ had within a square marked by flickering candles, and then waited for a sign as he _always_ did, the doorway that led to his lord shrouded by a magical mist as it _always_ was.

He could smell something fragrant.

Were these candles… _Scented_?

They weren’t the same from this morning…

 **“Blade of the Darkmoon, explain thy presence.”** his god finally spake from beyond the hazy veil, a certain anxiety filling his often stern and measured voice. **“The hour is not yet upon us, and Anor Londo is without one of its finest spears. Art thou in urgent need of mine ministration?**

To think that the one thing that separated Martin from gazing upon the one he’d pledged his very existence to was merely a few inches of glorified _steam_. To think that for all this time he’d refused the urge that stabbed at him like a jagged knife to step forward and intrude upon the shroud ahead. He’d come here on a whim, shirking his duty upon his fellows; not that he had the guts to admit it.

 **“Please state thy wish mine noble knight.”** Gwyndolin urged, taken aback by his servant’s silence. It was unlike him to avoid answering a question, especially one directed at him. **“It is my function to safeguard thy person as Dark Sun, and I must know what troubles thee Martin, Blade of the Darkmoon.”**

The Dark Sun had called him by his name several times before, and he had done the same for many of his colleagues all ensconced in identical plate mail. It was a telling sign when a god so mighty could recognise his subjects and address them by name seemingly from sight alone; just another reason why the youngest son was deserving of worship and tribute.

Martin stared at the fog gate before him, his heart screaming at him to take a few steps forward and sate his burning curiosity. But he was a simple man of logic, and his ever sensible mind forced him to lower his head in supplication as it always did. He just couldn’t do it – he’d programmed himself to obey. **“I-I have sinned, my lord.”** he stammered guiltily, seeking absolution. **“My transgressions are few yet _grim_ , and they vex me so.”**

Gwyndolin did not respond instantly, his weighty pause lasting just enough time to feel peculiar. It was as if the Dark Sun was busying himself with some activity, prepping himself in a hurry. **“... Father Gwyn is a fair and just god, and smiles upon those who serve his namesake.”** he assured the knight, giving his word as judge and executioner. **“Thy felonies may be foul, yet thy soul remains unsullied. Do not punish thineself with unneeded scorn, Blade of the Darkmoon.”**

 **“I am _lost_ , oh Dark Sun.”** Martin brooded, confiding in the one god he truly believed in. **“My faith in the Lord and Lady of Sunlight wavers, and a base urge grips at mine soul to trespass thy domain.”** he shook his head, amazed by the ridiculousness of it all as he confessed his heretical thoughts. **“I wish to gaze upon the one god I serve true with mine own eyes, and for that I art sullied so in spite of thy blessed words.”**

The pause was almost doubled in length this time, the faint sound of bare feet pattering on stone and the shuffling of cloth being punctuated by the noise of something large and heavy being shoved against a wall. **“Y-You wish to look upon my person?”** Gwyndolin uncharacteristically stammered after a while, seemingly short of breath. **“To… Gaze upon me as if I too were a god and deity?”**

 **“You _are_ a god and deity, greater than any other!” ** Martin interrupted in a sudden outburst. He furrowed his brow in disgust, pressing the nasal of his helm against the paved floor. **“And this sinner _fouls_ all upon touch.”**

The only way to cleanse himself of this sin was through punishment, and it was sickening that he who had once dealt justice had let corruption and taint get the better of him. He felt he had disappointed his fellow Silver Knights for falling knowingly to such base depravity, but worse still he felt he had harmed his liege and betrayed his undying trust.

 **“Martin, I thought** …” Gwyndolin spoke quietly, only to stop himself and regain the stern voice he was known for. **“Come hither, Blade of the Darkmoon. Pierce the veil, and enter this sacred tomb proper.”**

Martin raised his head, taken aback by such an order that amounted to sacrilege. **“My lord?”**

 **“P-Please?”** he asked, or rather begged, with a stutter.

Obedient to a fault the Blade of the Darkmoon rose to his feet and extended an arm to push through the murk of the fog gate. In spite of its thickness it gave little resistance, parting before his hulking person like a flock of flighty doves.

And there he was, straight ahead, in tangible form.

Dark Sun Gwyndolin.

Clad in spotless white garments and adorned with a weighty golden crown, he almost seemed to be trembling; not in fear, but rather with a childish sense of excitement. The dissipating fog from which Martin came regained its misty volume, returning to its shrouding state.

That smell of fragrant candles was far more intense within the tomb itself, and briefly tearing his eyes from the majesty of the Dark Sun he spotted dozens of the things dotted on numerous tables across the length of the hall. They were all tall and flat topped, freshly lit for what seemed to be the first time. Even within the restrictive cone of vision his awkward helm levied Martin could see an open crate filled to the brim with sconces, which had been clumsily hidden behind a table. As if noticing Gwyndolin moved between the Silver Knight and the box, suspiciously blocking it from sight.

Had Gwyndolin just been lighting them?

 _Setting a mood_ , as it were?

The deity kept his hands to his front, his posture erect to just barely reach Martin’s shoulders in height. **“Thine felonies are troubling, Knight of Anor Londo, but not beyond redemption.”** his fingers subtly loosened for a moment, a collection of smoking matchsticks falling to the floor; red handed. “ **Relax thineself, breathe _deeply_.” ** he advised, himself taking a lungful of air.

Martin mimicked the god before him, partaking in that scented aroma only to regain his knightly composure and bow his head. His eyes were too base to gaze upon such wonder, but Gwyndolin raised a hand to halt his submission. **“Lift thine eyes. The hour is nigh, and thy punishment is likewise.”** the white-clothed idol announced. After a moment he turned his head, suddenly interested in a window to his left. Supposedly raised a woman, there was a certain femininity to his words and ways. **“… I-I would rather this be kept a secret, for the livelihoods of us both.”**

 **“I am yours and yours alone, my lord.”** Martin reaffirmed, standing tall and empowered by his faith in the true Darkmoon. **“I will brook no less than your ordained words.”**

 **“ _Yes_ …”** Gwyndolin said breathlessly, clutching the front of his gown between ladylike fingers. His lower lip was trembling and so he bit it firmly, his hands reaching further and further down. He traced his stomach, his thighs, and his knees, before finding his purchase and beginning to pull.

 **“Remove thine helm, _child_.”** he spake, and the knight obeyed, **“Thou shall follow my every word, and obey my every order.”** he said, the hem of his skirt now over his knees. **“We will cleanse thine _naughty_ soul together, Martin.”**

Suddenly the dress was hiked all the way up, the Dark Sun Gwyndolin nervously holding it by both ends between finger and thumb. Exposed now was something that Martin had never in his wildest dreams expected to see. Small and grey and fully erect, trembling with cold and energy, was his deity’s awaiting member.

_What was this feeling in his chest?_

_Was there something in those candles?_

**“H-Hurry mine Blade of the Darkmoon.”** Gwyndolin urged, his hips lewdly swaying partially from the chill. His length bobbed ever so slightly from side to side, beckoning the Silver Knight closer. **“Is it not obvious? I wish for thee to…”**

_Suck it._

That’s what his god wanted. Martin was a man well taught in the use of spear and shield, a talented vanguard and master of combat, but he was no lover. He had pledged his existence to battle as a soldier, yet the Dark Sun required him as something more. All he had to work with was primal instinct.

And that primal instinct was to make his idol feel _good_.

_No matter the means._

So he stepped forward and knelt to his god, as he had always done. Gwyndolin scrunched up his gown between his silken fingers, holding it just above his navel as he watched with anticipation. Cold metal hands encased in plate pinched the small erection between finger and thumb, slick precum constantly oozing from its tip; no doubt the Dark Sun was equally sex starved as his servant.

Martin struggled to get a grip, the slippery cock constantly sliding out of his hands and prompting a shudder from the god. **“M-Make haste…”** he chastised, swallowing his drool. **“Do not tease me so…”**

Desperate to please but not entirely sure how, Martin held the base of Gwyndolin’s cock between his fingers and began to slowly lavish it with his tongue. He lapped circles around the tip, the bitter taste of precum being beaten only by the sheer joy of the situation he’d found himself in.

The mewls and whimpers that came from the Dark Sun spurred him on, his cute little balls rising and shivering to his clumsy yet potent assault. What Martin lacked in technique he more than made up for in sheer enthusiasm, and it was that sense of devotion that drove the god wild. His thorough licks evolved into a series of weak suckles, holding the end of his idol’s cock hostage between his lips and tugging gently. Even then his tongue continued to probe, rapidly flicking Gwyndolin’s sticky tip again and again.

 **“ _Martin_!”** Gwyndolin yelped in surprise, his arms struggling to keep his gown raised high. He hissed through gritted teeth, resting a hand atop his breast as if calming his heart. **“D-Don’t neglect my _balls_ so…”**

Obeying his command he quickly got to work, placing a smooch between the god’s small sack. His nose rubbed against the underside of Gwyndolin’s dick, the length bobbing up and down with every nudge. Between the scent of the candles and the subtle musk of his liege, he knew which he preferred as he nuzzled ever closer.

Gwyndolin’s moans grew more and more exaggerated as Martin reached for his lord’s saliva-coated length and vigorously pumped it, all the while continuing to service his testes. The hand upon his chest began to explore the curves of his breasts, squeezing one tit tightly between his fingers. The Dark Sun shivered in arousal, moaning **“ _Faster_ ”** and **_“Suck my cute little balls_ ”** between drawn-out whimpers and groans. Caught up in the moment his probing hand reached under his blouse to fondle at the awaiting flesh, yet his aggressive and lust driven movements found nothing of the sort.

Something slipped down his front and fell out of his open gown; a soft, cotton, _suspiciously_ breast sized pad had fallen onto the floor. Both he and Martin stopped their movements for a moment, the truth behind Gwyndolin’s modest bust revealed. Gwyndolin stammered in a hasty defence, “ **I-I did not place that upon mine brea-”** the second pad rolled out with comical timing, the front of his blouse now completely flat. He flushed furiously, his lip quivering as he struggled to find an excuse **. “… T-They aren’t mine! They-”**

Not phased in the slightest by such a thing, Martin released his liege’s dick from his fingers and pulled Gwyndolin close by the rear. Squeezing his god’s pert bottom he fit the whole of the Dark Sun’s delicate cock in his mouth, its small size letting him bathe it in its entirety with his tongue. The feminine deity gasped in surprise at such a haughty action, both of his hands gripping onto Martin’s head and letting his scrunched up dress cover him.

Gwyndolin gently thrust into his faithful’s awaiting mouth, exploring the many angles of his warm tongue. **“F-Fucking thine mouth feels so…”** he ruffled Martin’s hair between his fingers, pushing deeper as his balls rubbed against the bristles of the knight’s stubbled chin. **“Naughty little heretic, sucking mine boy cock so _perversely_!” **

Martin was shocked by such aggressive words, the formal language he was so accustomed to being washed away by slutty and at times _cringeworthy_ expletives. But this shock quickly evolved into an enamoured lust – his god was saying these words not because _he_ found it enjoyable, but because he thought it would appeal to his Blade’s tastes.

_And he wasn’t wrong._

_The scent was intoxicating._

Tightly pressing Martin’s head against his member Gwyndolin used him like a toy, holding him down for as long as he could take before eventually letting him pull away. The large knight released his god’s short, slender, sloppy cock from heaven, a long strand of drool still attached between his lips and his liege’s dick. **“Thou art in need of relief _, hmmm_?”** he purred, licking his lips like a whore, **“I _hunger_ so, I need thy big sinner’s cock in my mouth.”** he reached for his member and rubbed it against Martin’s drenched lips, breaking the tether of saliva as he massaged the underside of his tip. **“The Dark Sun wants to choke on it, right _now_!”**

After an incredibly awkward amount of fumbling which blatantly betrayed the apparent experience and confidence in his words, the pair positioned themselves with Gwyndolin atop Martin, poised to suck on one-another’s needs. Not entirely sure how his armour worked the bare-bottomed Dark Sun awkwardly fiddled with the groin of his servant’s plate as the Silver Knight was smothered by his bare length. Martin rolled up his partner’s gown and grabbed a firm purchase on the god’s ass, his fingers eager for another squeeze. While Gwyndolin lacked the sheer curvature of a woman, that didn’t make his slight bottom any less cute in its own way.

But Gwyndolin was an impatient god and pressed his waist down, rocking his hips lustfully at the feeling as he stuffed Martin’s mouth with both cock and balls. **“Thine _beautiful_ god wants to fuck thy mouth.” ** he exhaled hotly, his ass flexing with effort. **“A-And he wants his _handsome_ knight to fuck _his_.”** Martin’s dick finally broke free of the confines of his armour, large in both length and girth. The Dark Sun stared at it in shock and awe; could he even fit something _that_ big down his throat? He sniffed and nuzzled it experimentally as he continued to inadvertently suffocate his partner, the lack of oxygen reaching the knight’s brain giving his deity’s heavenly touch an even greater power. Gwyndolin pursed his lips into a roughly circular shape, positioning the tip of the raging boner between them. It stunk from a day of marching in heavy plate, but to his sex-addled mind he _longed_ for it; wanted to smell like that, covered in musk and cum. Muffled, he stressed with vibrating lips, **“Don’t hold back.”**

And so the Blade of the Darkmoon began to thrust. Gwyndolin was turned from a well-spoken and dominant flirt into a sputtering mess in a matter of moments, clutching onto Martin’s hips and continuing to grind against Martin’s face as he tried to take in the entire length of his follower’s cock at once in spite of his lack of experience. While he impressively lasted a full fifteen seconds he quickly reached his limit, and choking and hacking he pulled away from the drool coated dick and slid to the side a tad; dizzy and confused. The god’s member pulling out of Martin’s mouth with a lewd pop, a dazed yet concerned knight looked worriedly at his liege.

 **“P-Puh… P-Perhaps if we were to start slower rather than with such _primal_ haste.”** Gwyndolin struggled to suggest, his voice hoarse and his head aching. He placed a hand on his sore throat, swallowing loudly. A tad bit embarrassed by how much of a braggart he’d been, the Dark Sun pulled himself back atop his partner and clutched the base of his length, dangling his own little dick over Martin’s awaiting mouth teasingly like a fisherman’s lure. **“I love thine _fat,_ horny cock, Martin.”** he sighed whimsically, running his fingers gently along its length. Martin shuddered, oozing precum which his idol lovingly licked off; he couldn’t put his finger on the flavour, but he was instantly hooked. **“… R-Really, I do…”**

With that they began to quietly tend to each other’s needs, what had been a lusty fucking reduced to a timid, affectionate bout of lovemaking. Martin felt this gentleness was a much greater reflection of Gwyndolin as a whole, demonstrating his reserved compassion for those who served him. Loudly and comically Gwyndolin covered the knight’s cock with smooch after smooch, from top to bottom, and all over his balls. He squeaked with sudden surprise, flinching. **“You bit me, Martin…”**

Before Martin could beg for forgiveness he bit back; ever so lightly but on the tip, prompting the Blade to yelp. The Dark Sun giggled playfully, returning to a shower of wet smooches like a doting mother.

**“ _Awww_.”**

_Mwah, Mwah._

**“Poor _little_ Silver Knight, let thine god kiss it better.**

_Mwah, Mwah._

**“ _Good boy_.”**

_Mwah, Mmmmmmmmwah._

Gwyndolin shuddered as Martin gleefully suckled on his balls, placing his hands on the ground for balance and slowly thrusting into the hot warmth of his knight’s mouth; measured and carefully, rather than forcefully as before. Martin purred approvingly, sending vibrations through the Dark Sun’s body as he dipped his sack again and again. **“D-Dirty blasphemer…”** he murmured, his cute little bottom twerking to a rhythm as he found a comfortable pace. **“Thy god should be the one dealing punishment…”**

Despite his words he continued to ride his Blade’s face for quite some time, before reluctantly pulling away with a drenched pair of balls even wetter than his rigid cock. He wouldn’t admit it, but he _loved_ the feeling of having his sack suckled and bit on; ‘twas so very _sinful_. He stood on shaking legs, shuffling away a few feet with a womanly gait and giving Martin a lovely view of his bouncing bottom and dainty thighs. He had one little mole, just on the underside of the left cheek. **“P-Punishment requires that the felon and judge _strip_ before on another…” ** he announced anxiously, cupping his rear.

_He’d just made that up hadn’t he?_

_But who was he to question the blessed word of his deity?_

Martin rose to his feet, and loyal to his lord’s words began to unfasten what remained of his platemail; once grandiose, now stained with spit, sweat and precum. Gwyndolin turned and stared at him expectantly for a few moments, chest thumping, before realising that he should probably undress himself also. **“W-Watch me.”** the Dark Sun commanded, the first of many blouse buttons coming undone. **“Watch thine god _strip_ for thee.”**

As the Dark Sun began to expose himself he stared at the Silver Knight with the unerring excitement of a boy on his birthday, captivated by the shape of his abs and the tone of his body. The soldier’s chest was adorned with a patch of hair, accentuating the bulk of his muscled pecs. Would you believe him if he said that his knight’s bare body had been the topic of many a dream these past few months?

 _The real thing beat his imagination_.

After the last few buttons popped free the white gown of Gwyn’s youngest slipped off his frail body in a heap, leaving him completely nude save for the oversized crown that adorned his head.

Grasping the pointed lengths that protruded from the ceremonial headpiece, Gwyndolin paused with sudden reluctance. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d shown his face to someone, having been shunned into isolation for so many years and being labelled an abomination by many.

He glanced at Martin nervously; Martin wouldn’t judge him because he was _Martin_. That may have sounded like flawed and circular logic, but it made perfect sense to him.

He pulled off the helmet and let it fall to the floor with a dull conk.

The first thing that grabbed the Blade of the Darkmoon was his eyes. The Dark Sun’s eyes - like his voice - betrayed his youthful appearance, silver bangs brushed aside to reveal a subtle golden glow filling each iris and granting him a mysterious allure. These were the eyes of a god who'd seen more unfold than any of his servants could hope to claim. These were the eyes of a god who’d faced adversity from the day he was born. His lush eyelashes fluttered, the white pallor of his skin flawless as he.

_It was nice being stared at like this._

_With affection rather than aversion._

Awkwardly trying to cope with the heaviness in the air Gwyndolin struck what he thought would be and alluring pose, holding his hands behind his hips and pushing his waist out to accentuate his dripping dick. **“Like what you see…?”** he asked, his body both feminine and boyish all at once. He stared at Martin’s chest obsessively, his heart visibly beating against his breast. **“B-Because I do…”**

Gwyndolin slowly closed the gap between them, before bumping face-first into Martin’s chest with a muffled **“ _Ow_ ”** from the impact. His loyal servant kept his hands to his side, letting the god do what he wished. Teasingly he massaged the knight’s chest, tracing the grooves of his muscles and gently pressing his little cock against Martin’s massive member.

Standing on the tip of his toes he could just barely reach the Silver Knight’s chin, which he pecked at weakly. While not short by any means he had always been one of the smaller gods, and it was something that easily got him flustered even to this day. Gwyndolin pressed himself against the larger man, his hairless chest and pointed nipples smoothly rubbing against him. “ ** _Kiss me_.”** he murmured suddenly, **“W-With speed and _great_ frequency, _now_.”**

Bending his knees awkwardly Martin kissed his lips. He wasn’t really sure what he was doing nor was Gwyndolin, but both of them tried again. And again. And _again_ just to make sure. All the while the Dark Sun continued to massage his servant’s body, running his soft palms across his stomach and eagerly pressing their cocks together. Still wet and slick from their lovemaking the two shafts slipped and slid against one another, their tips occasionally prodding as if sharing their own wet smooches.

Reaching further down Gwyndolin grasped the two of their members between a tight fist, muffling a moan with a long and deep smooch. He could feel Martin’s body shudder as he jerked off the two of them, their exploring tongues darting about within the moist caverns of their mouths.

_That sound._

It was impossible to describe but he _loved_ it; the sound of their hungry kisses breaking apart, wet and loud and followed by a gasping chorus of airy groans and sweet nothings. Forehead to forehead Gwyndolin continued to pump at an excruciating pace, staring into the Silver Knight’s eyes hypnotically. The golden glow of his iris was almost soothing, like a warm honey or the rising dawn. **“Doth mine Silver Knight wish to fuck mine _Darkmoon_ with his _Blade_?” ** the Dark Sun purred, needily thrusting into the cramped warmth of his hand and Martin’s length. He paused awkwardly, wondering if his play on words had even made sense. **“… A-As in fuck mine tight little ass?”** he clarified, cheeks red. **“W-With thy thick, manly _dick_?”**

Apparently it made perfect sense, as the pair somehow descended to the floor without releasing one another from their respective grips. With the knight that stood vigil day and night laid flat out on his back the god coyly straddled his waist, placing the flats of his feet on the ground. His stiff member strained with lust, hovering an inch above Martin’s stomach.

Gwyndolin began to lower himself, blindly rubbing the knight’s shaft against his cheeks as he fumbled for the right angle. Guiding Martin’s dick was harder than it looked, **“D-Do not laugh…”** he pouted cutely, incredibly self conscious of his bumbling ways. **“Perhaps thine cock is to-”**

Suddenly it found its mark, impaling Gwyndolin with half its length in mere moments. He squeaked in surprise, biting on his finger to cope with the sudden surge of pain. Martin made to rise yet his god prodded him back, his frown contorting into a wicked – if shaky - smile.

 **“ _Dirty_ sinner...” ** he teased, leaning back and opening his legs as he gazed intimately into Martin’s eyes. **“Fucking thine god’s tight little ass…”** with the awkward form of someone who knew not what he was doing but ached to do it he began to ride his servant’s rock hard member, the sheer mass eye watering without proper lubrication. **“M-Making thine god a cock hungry _whore_ …!”**

The ravaging of his virgin rump was driving him crazy, his frantic humping making his dribbling dick flail up and down upon the cushion of his balls. His tip slapped Martin’s stomach with every movement, staining his stomach with sticky precum and the lewd slapping sound joining the moans of the Dark Sun.

 **“So _fucking_ biiiig!”** Gwyndolin slurred, quite literally _drooling_ from such a deep dicking. His knees growing heavy from such brutal exertion he threw himself forward, face to face with his knight as he continued to flex his hips. **“K-Kiss your god!”** he ordered loudly, grasping Martin’s hands and holding them tight. His hands were small, soft and grey in polar opposite to his servant. The two fruitlessly reached out with their tongues, clumsily wrestling together as the deity continued to bounce. **“Mine _girly_ _dick_ is all wet for thee!”**

Their fingers interlocked Martin leaned forward, roughly exploring the mouth of the one he’d pledged his life to protect and beginning to thrust himself. Gwyndolin’s muffled murmurs urged him to press on, his own movements slowing as if in surrender to the physically stronger knight. The god wanted to be dominated by this ‘ _heretic’_ ; made a lewd _fuck toy_ by a mortal man. Father had feared men for their unerring lust for control and power.

 _But it was that which made him so horny_.

His cock pressed between their stomachs and rubbing with every thrust, Gwyndolin’s head slumped against Martin’s collar as the Blade of the Darkmoon bent his knees and began to rapidly ram the Dark Sun’s rear with unrelenting force. The deity had gone completely limp; a ragdoll to be used for pleasure. Gwyndolin wasn’t sure whether it was his filled up ass, his squeezed dick or the addictive scent of Martin’s sweat, but he could feel his balls tighten in warning. **“I-I’m about to cum…”** he slurred weakly, muffling his cries with a face full of pecs. **“Fucking thine _slut_ so roughly is… M-Making me…!”**

The anal stimulation milked out a weak yet plentiful orgasm, a steady torrent of watery semen shooting across Martin’s stomach. While his thrusts slowed ever so slightly he continued to hump vigorously, resting his nose upon Gwyndolin’s hair. **“So much cum for _thee_ , Martin…”** he sighed, his still stiff member continuing to thrust as the pool of cum clung to both of their bodies. **“Thine god wants it _all_ inside his _girly_ little ass.”** he purred huskily, holding his favourite knight tight. **“Thou art _mine_ god. Do what thou please with me!”**

Gwyndolin’s body, wracked by the throes of orgasm, vigorously milked at Martin’s intrusive member. Ripples of tightness surged throughout the idol’s ass, squeezing the knight’s base at one point only to pinch at the tip a few seconds later. Martin’s breath grew ragged, his throat drying from the overwhelming and almost unnatural pleasure.

While weakened the frail god still urged his partner on with lewd and perverted encouragements. **“Empty thy balls in me, Blade of the Darkmoon.”** he whispered, reaching for his spent member and gently rubbing its underside. “ **I can feel every vein in thine throbbing _dick_.”** he sighed lustfully, eager to feel the Silver Knight’s swollen cock pulsing within his walls. **“Make me thine whore!”**

Martin’s breaths grew shallow, his orgasm approaching. Gwyndolin raised his voice and threw what little subtlety he had left to the dogs, bluntly and rudely begging for exactly what he wanted from his servant. **“Cum! Cum in mine ass!”** he cried, a second wind surging through him as he grinded his hips once more. Even as the knight crossed the point of no return Gwyndolin continued to rock his waist, eager to make this orgasm as powerful and pleasurable as he could. **“Cum! _Cum_! _Yes_! _Y_ - _Yes_ …!” **he squealed like a common slut, his words degenerating into one drawn out whimper as he felt his dearest ejaculate. **“So much cum…!”** he laughed in a cute and nervous way, slowing his grinding as he felt each spurt paint his insides white. It was a strange sensation, without a doubt. **“I can feel it… I-It tickles…”**

It took quite some time for the god to release Martin’s cock from his rear, having grown accustomed to its great size and feeling a discomforting emptiness when it was pulled out of his stretched hole. Their limbs heavy and their hearts racing the two lay together about the cold tomb floor, content with pressing their bodies together and squeezing the last few drops out of eachother’s lengths.

Gwyndolin didn’t mind being dirtied, drips and dribbles of his own semen being milked onto his stomach by Martin’s prying hands as cum oozed from his abused hole and slid down his thighs. He was content with nuzzling noses, quietly caressing his servant’s spent member not out of mindless lust but rather with a sense of loyalty and care.

The candles had been completely overpowered by the scent of their lovemaking quite some time ago – sweat, tears, and sperm. They were miniscule at this point, much of their wax having burnt away and leaving their flames to flicker on borrowed time. Just how long had they been at it?

 **“Thou hast nary spoken a word since we began thy… _Punishment_ …” **Gwyndolin pointed out with regained composure, lying atop the larger man like he were a cushion.   **“Art thee well, Martin?”**

Many an oath had been broken today. He had thrown away his sacred vows and somehow done the unthinkable in claiming the virginity of both a prince _and_ a god. When he had come to the Darkmoon Tomb he had several ideas how events would proceed, but one could forgive him for not being prepared for this contingency. Martin was anxious, to say the least. **“I-It is not my place to speak, my lord.”**

His voice returning to that stern yet comforting tone he often used, the Dark Sun caressed the Silver Knight’s stubbled jaw. **“My _dear_ Blade.” ** he sighed longingly, nuzzling his nose with his own, **“Thou art mine grandest knight. From the day ye pledged thy spear and shield to mine father I could feel it in mine breast.”** his golden eyes almost seemed to sparkle, as if recalling a fond but distant memory. They gazed into his without fear, **“It was a foreign feeling that one could not describe nor understand… But it has all come together.”** the Silver Knight struggled to blink, not wanting to break their stare for so much as a moment. **“Martin, thou art a wonderful man who hath proven his loyalty and good will time and time again, and no doubt shall do so ‘til the end days come.”**

As if reeling him in with his enchanting gaze, the beautiful prince of Anor Londo suddenly pinched the tip of Martin’s length with his nails, smirking deviously as the larger man was jogged out of his reverie. **“… Thy lovely cock is but a _little_ perk!”**

The soldier took a moment to process his liege’s kind words of encouragement, and his drive to reassure his follower even now whilst dazed and exhausted. Perhaps he had been so obsessed with the _words_ of the vows he had taken that he had forgotten their true meaning? To serve the Darkmoon was an honour of the highest calibre; a reward for those that yearned for justice, not a strict punishment that would control one’s existence.

_… A ‘little’ perk?_

Silver Knight Martin chuckled dryly at the thought. It was a strange sort of chuckle for someone so humourless and serious as he, and it caught Gwyndolin – pleasantly – by surprise. The Dark Sun’s cheeky smirk became a delicate yet confused smile, his eyebrow rising inquisitively.

 **“Why art thou…?”** Gwyndolin began to question, only to realise what he had said, **“Very well, a _big_ perk!”** he hit Martin’s chest playfully, yet his laughter continued. **“A _gigantic_ perk?”** soon enough they were both chortling, **“Don’t let thine ego grow too large, knight!”**

Soon the laughter faded away, the two once again smitten by the mere sight of one another like a pair of newlyweds on their honeymoon. All the while Gwyndolin continued to slowly run his thumb along the underside of Martin’s member, squeezing out the very last drops of his monstrous orgasm. Even now it was white and viscous; the Silver Knight was a _very_ fertile man indeed.

**“My lord, I-”**

**“Why not ‘ _my love_ ’…?”** Gwyndolin suddenly interrupted, finally breaking their stare. Shyly he nestled against Martin’s neck, as if trying to hides his eyes. **“… J-Just for today.”**

Without his characteristic hesitation the knight kissed Gwyndolin’s forehead clumsily, continuing to press their now flaccid cocks together. While no longer charged with blinding lust, there was a certain comfort and warmth that came from it. That and he found the Dark Sun’s little member rather _cute_.

Gwyndolin kissed him quickly. **“Thou art pure of heart, Martin.”** the deity announced theatrically, his soul ‘ _cleansed’_ and his punishment served. He went in for another kiss, this time a tad bit longer as he gently bit his follower’s lower lip. He had something else to add but he couldn’t help but go 0in once _again_ , smooching him loudly with a hint of tongue. **“A-A _fantastic_ kisser…”** he complimented as they broke for the briefest of moments, pressing their foreheads together. **“Mayhaps we shall kiss again one day?”**

This time Martin was the one to kiss him, brushing his lush silver locks between his fingers. The two fought a brief tug of war as they battled for supremacy, but eventually the satisfied Gwyndolin ceded victory and let his numb lips be ravaged. The victorious Martin, gracious in victory, spared his lover’s defeated mouth from any more punishment; for now.

 **“We could kiss every morning…”** Gwyndolin sighed dreamily, closing his eyes and resting upon Martin’s breast. For a moment he imagined a simpler world where there was no need for the Darkmoon knights, nor the constant vigil of an entire city. They could be truly happy together, sharing their lives and doing all the things that couples were meant to do – with plenty of _fantastic_ sex on top of that. He couldn’t help being so obsessed with that; he was _lonely_. **“I art a slut for your big dick…”** he thought aloud, only to quickly realise what he had let slip as if it wasn’t common knowledge. **“Thine heart is racing… D-Did that make you blush? But it’s true!”** the Dark Sun insisted, pouting bossily. **“Thine deity demands a _tribute_ every night, when no one is looking…”**

Martin held him close in a firm embrace, resting his chin on Gwyndolin’s slight shoulder; body language for ‘ _I agree_ ’, the Dark Sun concluded. Sighing in approval the god returned the gesture, hands splayed upon the knight’s shoulder blades.

Serenity, of both mind and body.

_Peace._

Today’s events would have implications no doubt, but for once Martin did not feel concerned. Hours ago he had been beating himself with angst and despair over the unknown ahead and the cost of crossing his boundaries, yet the soft touch and softer words of his deity had reassured his troubled heart. He had made him content. He had given him _courage_.

Silver Knight Martin feared very little, but that wasn’t to say he was _entirely_ fearless, even now with the blessing of his liege. Could any mortal man or immortal god make such a claim? Even the Lord of Sunlight himself shuddered at the thought of the faltering First Flame fading away with nary a whimper.

Without beating around the bush, Martin was afraid of _snakes_.

It was a very specific phobia no doubt tied to some sort of incident in his youth, but it was so very specific that it had never been worth mentioning.

Until now, of all times.

It took a few seconds for him to realise that something was wrong. At first it felt like a chilled length of string was slowly being brought along his legs, coiling up his thighs and cresting over Gwyndolin’s rear. It was at this point that he saw them – _them_ , as in _several_ – cresting over the curve of the snoozing Dark Sun’s bottom.

_Those beady little eyes._

_Those jittery forked tongues._

Tasting the air and no doubt amused by the musky taste, the platoon of slithering serpents continued their twisted advance. They coiled around the defenceless deity and moved closer and closer, almost binding them together as if they were sentient lassos. Rather frightened to put it lightly, Martin’s tightening embrace pulled Gwyndolin from his slumber.

 **“Hmmm?”** the Dark Sun murmured, rightfully groggy from their session prior **, “Why, art thou stiff again?”** he asked, entirely ignorant to the legion of snakes that were wrapped around his body. Mishearing a whimper of worry as one of arousal, Gwyndolin chuckled lightly at the ‘ _stiffness’_ of his partner. **“Already? Was it mine words that did this…?”** the serpents were beginning to slip between them now, searching around their dirtied stomachs like demented probes. **“Perverted little sinner, _very_ naughty indeed.”**

A hushed hissing sound sent a chill down his spine, the feeling of scales sliding between their sticky skin foreign and unsettling. It was difficult to decide what terrified him more - the sinister sight of the snakes or the knowledge that while hidden they were there, slithering and scheming in secret.

Somehow he managed to squeeze Gwyndolin even tighter, trembling as forked tongues tickled his navel. Were they licking up the…?

_They were._

_They really were._

**“Thou hair hast stood on end, art thou cold?”** he placed a warm pair of kisses on his partner’s neck, feeling his racing pulse. **“Come close Martin, is it not mine duty as thy liege to satisfy thy needs?”**

Both the Dark Sun and the spelunking serpents wrapped around him tightly in an affectionate embrace, even _more_ of the slippery sods creeping up Gwyndolin’s thighs. Martin’s whimpers were quickly silence by an authoritative hush from his deity, whom the snakes mimicked with a loud, unanimous hiss.

It was at this moment that Martin’s horror-stricken mind put two and two together. These serpents were a _part_ of Gwyndolin, sprouting from his person and pulling the knight into his embrace. This was the sort of cosmic irony that could only occur in the world of fiction – the one person that made him content and could bring him to a state of complete and utter peace _just_ so happened to have an endless legion of the one thing that made his skin crawl sprouting out of his body.

_This sort of thing was why he was such a stressed person._

**“ _Shhhh_ , your god is with you.”** Gwyndolin reassured him, his lips so close that it felt as if his words came from within his mind itself. The buzzing ring of silence was completely overpowered by his presence. **“And he shan’t _ever_ leave the side of his most loyal servant.” ** his gentle breaths and constant pulse surrounded him, smothering his senses with their tranquillity. **“Let us rest together.”** the Dark Sun let off an exaggerated fake yawn, tangling their legs together all cosy and snug – and inadvertently locking Martin in place. **“Thou can have me _all_ night, Martin.”**

_It was always night in Anor Londo._

The last of the candles flittered and wobbled, until at last it was snuffed out.

**“Sleep well, my shining knight.”**

X

_**(A/N):** You never realise how frustratingly difficult it is to write dialogue in Ye Olde Englishe until you have to do it for a dialogue heavy porn fic! Not entirely pleased by how this one turned out in the end, although I went for sort of a fuzzy young lovers thing in the end which was cute – if a bit bland._

_As for that candle thing? That was gonna just be a one off joke about Gwyndolin trying to give the Darkmoon Tomb a romantic mood, but that weird implied aphrodisiac thing randomly happened… I wonder if something like that exists in Lordran?_

_With that the first arc of the Compendium is concluded,  but fear not! After a brief hiatus we shall return with the second arc set in Drangleic and Dark Souls II! We’ve got plenty of new waifus to come, ranging from excitable bird ladies to hypnotic big booty zombie temptresses to towering snake women with terrible self esteem issues! Make no mistake, with increased danger comes even greater degeneracy! Watch for it!_


	6. Sweet Shalquoir

** PlayerUnknown’s Soulsborne Waifu Compendium **

**(A/N):** We’re moving on to Dark Souls II, the first Souls I ever played and a bit of a guilty pleasure in spite of its shortcomings! And on the topic of guilty pleasures let’s try and do a kink fic about a freakin’ cat with a cute English accent. Yep.

This time we’ll be introduced to a shoddy ranger who goes by the moniker Tenacious Terry, who while painfully submissive and docile is in the awkward position of being a bit of a pretty boy. So what could possibly go wrong when a headstrong, assertive, arrogant cat takes a morbid fascination in him?

 **WARNING:** Obvious sexual content, spelling errors, bad language, cringy and heavy dialogue, femdom, insults, an awkward attempt at writing a text based JOI session with very little JOI actually going on, crude jokes, smug waifus, overuse of the word ‘ _degenerate’_ , no actual literal sex, lusting over a freakin’ cat, OC protagonists with little personality, OOC behaviour, non-lore friendly events, and my first story in around six months and my first LEMON in probably four years!

** Chapter Six: Sweet Shalquoir **

He wanted to shag a flippin’ cat.

Maybe it would be a good idea to start from the beginning?

Tenacious Terry was what you would call a poster boy, descended from a long line of bowmen tied to the Royal Rangers of Drangleic’s once innumerable military legions. You’d be relieved to discover that his ridiculous alliterative name was very much rooted in hereditary tradition, with the likes of Meticulous Malcolm, Gracious Geoff, Scandalous Shannon, and the infamous Handsome Hank preceding him in the family line.

As a member of the family he had been expected to serve a single role: to act as a mascot and icon for the recruitment of hapless souls into the Royal Army. It was a crude but efficient approach to mass recruitment, he and his sister – the foul mouthed Titillating Tracy – having their likenesses dominating advertising posters throughout town billboards, and appearing in all sorts of recruitment drive events to give kids the vibe that they too would be part of a brilliant team among the armed forces.

They sold it as a big, fun, productive, community based deal where hard work and cooperation led to massive pay off.

_The only true part there was the hard work._

Thankfully his family had been spared the terror of actual grunt work. All Terry really knew was the national anthem, how to pull a bowstring with a straight back, and that holding a dirk the wrong way around had a certain edgy allure to it that drove teenage girls ballistic.

Still, he couldn’t help but wonder how many people his face had indirectly murdered.

It gave him a bit of a complex he felt, as he literally shot his way through hordes of undead troops who’d once been recruits inspired by his visage. There must’ve been some poetic justice going on in there, but then he’d never been the best at literature classes. He usual spent his time doodling silly little moustaches and eyepatches on all the illustrations, set for life no matter what he did.

How long had it been since Drangleic had degenerated into a crumbling husk? The world around him had decayed to a ridiculous degree, resembling ancient artefacts from days long by – yet to him it felt like last _Monday_. He hadn’t risen to the challenge and become some bastion of self efficiency like he always thought he would. What foul sorcery was at work? Was the flow of time convoluted in some way?

_This was why Tracy always kept a gosh darn calendar._

_Tracy 34 – 2 Terry._

That hefty chunk of exposition wasn’t the most important thing in the world, yet it may have gone a long way in explaining his current predicament. For starters it would justify his being in the hamlet of Majula – simply put, it was the _least_ likely place to have a group of knife wielding undead recruits throwing themselves at him for karmic vengeance. He was used to having teenage girls chasing him in droves for hugs and kisses and autographs, but it was _pretty_ uncommon for them to bring knives into the equation.

But more to the point, it could explain the largest problem that Terry was met with these days – not battle, not wounds, not supplies, but rather his _personality_. Being held up on a pedestal by society only for said society to crumble had a strange effect on the way you think, and he couldn’t help but feel like he had something to prove to the remnants of Drangleic.

He didn’t have to work for his fame in days gone; born into it, he had the looks and the history to slip into the saddle of his forefathers and continue their work. He just did what he was told and was showered with praise for it. He hadn’t earned a single one of his many hot meals - he didn’t even _know_ how to cook.

Any self confidence or pride he’d once had wasted away around _Tuesday_ by his counts. He hardly even talked nowadays, mulling over everything for eons but letting others say whatever they wanted to him without retort. The amount of odd tasks he’d done not out of the kindness of his own heart but out of an inability to stand up for himself was _staggering_.

It was fascinating how little he was without his name behind him.

No one here had the faintest clue who he was.

He never thought he’d clear out an obviously trapped courtyard so some scavenger could pick at the remnants for trinkets.

He never thought he’d free a petrified wizard with a fragrant twig just so the smug magician could spend a few minutes mocking him for his lack of intelligence.

He never thought he’d risk his life and spend his own coin on a key for a random blacksmith to open the door to his _own_ anvil and tools with.

_He could’ve just climbed through the window if he wasn’t such a fat piece of-_

_Language Terry._

Where had all his bravado and charisma scurried off to? Where had he put the rest of his backbone? What sort of creative insults would Tracy throw at him if she could see him now?

Why couldn’t he be more like that arrogant old cat in town?

She wouldn’t raise a paw to stop her shack burning down, preferring to respond to requests with either a snide jab or with a loud yawn as she rolled upon her back and swatted at moths. He had entered her shop one morning and she didn’t even register his presence, seemingly engrossed in staring at her own reflection in a bucket of water.

He had never met someone so self-obsessed, so vain, so egotistical, so verbose, so confident, so _fluffy_ – providing you didn’t include his oft shirtless uncle Furry Frank – nor so comfortable with their place in the universe. She probably couldn’t even conceive of a land without her living in it. In the feline’s books the world would likely _end_ with her.

It was _repulsive_.

It was _inspiring._

Tenacious Terry longed for his titular tenacity to make itself known once more; that straightness in posture and that stupid forced chuckle that grannies would call ‘ _charming’_ , just like his heyday. While used to others deciding the route of his life he felt that the only choice he could make now was obvious – he needed an instructor in the ways of _hubris_ , and the gods had given him his angel.

_His small, hairy, weird smelling angel._

Nervously circling the poorly placed sinkhole that pierced the centre of Majula he’d made his way to her ‘ _store’_ , its shelves lined with all sorts of junk from spices to setsquares that were not for sale to begin with. The fabulous feline lay flat on her front on the edge of the shack’s singular table, her paw dangling over its side and swinging in rhythm with her tail.

_Sweet Shalquoir._

_Enchanté!_

Closing the shoddy wooden door in his wake Terry stood on the welcome mat with his hands behind his back, resembling an acne-ridden first date stuck waiting downstairs with his girlfriend’s dad as he stressed how deep his foot would go if any boundaries were crossed. Shalquoir’s paw continued to sway, her slitted eyes focusing intensely on something or other.

While the shop may have been silent the archer’s brain roared as fiercely as the stormy waves that crashed upon Majula’s white cliffs. He wanted to speak up and make himself known, but then what would the point be? She _obviously_ knew he was here, she just wasn’t acknowledging his existence – like a veteran waitress at a swanky upmarket tavern. Would talking set him up for a painful fall?

He went for it on an impulse, feeling the words riding up his throat and diving off his tongue into the metaphorical drink.

 **“E-Excuse me…”** his voice cracked horribly, pronouncing it properly yet putting the emphasis on all the wrong syllables. Shalquoir didn’t even flinch, a single hooked claw protruding from her paw. Terry could feel an unsettling flashback to his boyhood coming on, and he was quick to stomp on its clavicle.

_Not this time Steve. Not this time._

Fifty percent fluff and fifty percent flab; that was the conclusion he came to as he stared at the inanimate tabby cat. The sheer adrenaline of his arrival had dissipated into a mild sense of unease, hours of working himself into a state to take the plunge already spent at the door. Perhaps her very presence was having this effect on him? She was rather calming to look at in a strange way… Or was ‘ _disarming_ ’ a better word?

 **“Oh.”** she said, cutting him off just as he’d mustered the drive to ask again. The feline didn’t budge in the slightest – had she _really_ said something, or had she just made a strange, vaguely word-sounding noise as cats were prone to doing? This question was answered a mere forty-two seconds later; no doubt Sweet Shalquoir was feeling _chatty_ today. **“… Who are you again?”**

 **“I-I… _Yes_ , I… As in _me_... That’s to say…”** the ranger puked out a jumble of words, taken aback by the flippant feline’s disinterest. **“I’m Titillating Terry. No, no, _Tenacious_. Titillating Tenacious…?”** the young hunk’s brain practically rebooted there and then, **“… Who are you? Where am I? _What_?”**

If she cared in the slightest she didn’t show it, continuing as if he hadn’t even spoken. He hadn’t spoken _really_ so much as gibbered crazily for a few moments. **“Oh, I'm not _serious_.”** still she stared at her paw, not bothering to look up, **“You’re the tall, _fascinating_ one, aren’t you? The _quiet_ boy?”**

Tall? _Yes_.

Quiet? _Sadly_.

Fascinating?

_… Was she sure she had the right guy?_

**“You do have a rather pleasant scent.”** she continued to speak to herself, her pink button nose and elongated whiskers twitching in contemplation. **“The type I'm quite fond of. _Hee hee hee_ …”**

Having planned an entire conversation when he arrived, Shalquoir had quickly thrown him off his rhythm and left him struggling to find a suitable response. He went for the second thing that came to mind, the first thing involving a tad few many cuss words, **“What… W-What sort of scent is that then?”**

Her bright blue eyes had a certain allure to them, yet they remained fix on the ground **“You should know.”** she sighed lazily, as if it were all very obvious, **“The scent of one who likes to _watch_.”** her tone was almost accusatory, **“You’re the type who stares a bit too long, _just_ long enough to give it away. _In-Fat-Chu-Ate-Ted, hee hee_!”**

_Infatuated._

_He could spell that phonetically at least._

**“You’re thinking how preposterous I’m being, aren’t you?”** even if she could read minds she wouldn’t need to; he wore his emotions on his sleeve plain as day. The ranger was the classic example of a corn-fed youth, with no ability to hide his intentions, **“It starts with fascination, but it’s easy to tell. It’s _all_ in the smell. Yet you still haven’t taken notice?” ** her head raised ever so slightly, her glittering eyes rolling to meet his, **“So tell me, you _degenerate_ you. Why are you here?”**

_He was here for her._

Just when did he cross the threshold into obsession territory? This meeting had been dominating his mind these past few weeks, any moment not spent wallowing in self-pity being focused on sweet Sweet Shalquoir as the answer to all his ills.

_Degeneracy._

_It was a strange word._

_A foreign, alien one._

_One that you’d never want to be in the same room with_

It was her voice and character that drew him in, as if that justified it at all. In his desperate throes for someone or something to cling to he’d managed to throw himself upon the first source of authority he could land on without breaking his legs. The flutter in his chest as he entered her demesne wasn’t just one of anxiety and fear, but also one of enthrallment and longing. Terry wanted someone _oozing_ with self-confidence to help restore his purpose in life.

And she had him wrapped around her finger.

Well… _Pawpads_.

Which led us full circle.

_Namely, he wanted to shag a flippin’ cat._

_He was just as confused as anyone else would be_

**“Oh, don't feel bad. I'm _sure_ your mother's still proud… _Hee hee_!” ** Sweet Shalquoir suddenly rolled herself over, her fluffy belly looking rather ruffable. **“Say, why don’t we play a game? Us cats _love_ games.”**

Terry was so taken aback by the revelations of the last two minutes that his lips barely moved as he spoke. Hesitantly he tested the waters, **“What would… What would it be?”**

But that alone was the only sign she needed – telling of his interest. Succulent sardines were practically throwing themselves at her bait. Once she took hold, she only let go when she was satisfied. **“I won’t tell. Why, that’s part of the game isn’t it?”** she pouted, seemingly good intentioned, **“Just one chance, _tick toooock_.”**

 **“Yeah, yeah, _yes_.”** he suddenly splurted out, easily flustered by her words. Amused by his jumpiness she raised her head, propping herself up on her front legs. Her bushy tail – shaped like a maidservant’s duster - swayed from side to side with a conscious grace, silently brushing against the table top.

_He was staring._

_Hook, line, sinker._

**“The eager sort are we?”** she purred, licking at the pink beans of her paw in disinterest. This was so easy that the pretence of a game felt like a charade. She thought even he would at least have a _bit_ of fight in him before bending to her words. **“Then get on your knees for me. Oh, it is _very_ dusty in here.”**

Not at all understanding why he was doing it but _desperate_ to do so for some baffling reason Tenacious Terry, hero to all the children of old Drangleic, sunk to his knees without a shred of shame. Now face to face and level with the feline, he was inches away from her perpetually smug face.

The crude cobblestones of the shack’s floor jabbed through the thin fabric of his clothing, not sharp enough to draw blood but rugged all the same. While trendily dressed as a Royal Ranger his ornate leather uniform was light and flimsy, and provided about as much protection as a summer blanket from the cold.

 **“Comfortable? Or not?”** Shalquoir chipped, bemused by the sight of a grown man on his knees, **“I doubt it’ll bother you too much once our _game_ begins.” ** she let that hang in the air for a moment, wondering if the mindless thrall before her was at _least_ capable of reading between the lines. If he had a brain, it must’ve been the size of a walnut. **“… Well? Go on. Take off your belt. You’re the one who has _thumbs_ , _hee hee_!”**

Fumbling with his belt he continued to stare at her, his mind filled with the image of her condescending look. In direct contrast the cat lazily lapped at her neck, brushing the scruffy fluff along her throat with the many barbs of her tongue.

There was only one way that he could see this going, and it was that which disturbed him so deeply. What sort of crazed weirdo would come to _that_ conclusion? What sort of weirdo would _want_ that sort of conclusion?

Pulling the loosened belt by the buckle he released himself from its bindings, haphazardly tugging at the waist of his trousers and pathetically pulling them down. Sweet Shalquoir’s slitted eyes widened ever so slightly, fixing themselves on the generous bulge that nestled within his pants. **“Oh, I didn’t tell you to do _that_**.” she snickered mockingly, the curious young man’s hidden mass straining against its prison. **“But if you _insist_ , go ahead.”** she rest her chin atop her paws, unblinking. **“Pull _it_ out.”**

The pants came down with a strange sense of willingness, as if eager to obey such twisted demands. With a sudden surge his member popped out of its confines, bouncing about semi-erect. Terry sighed at the feeling of cold coastal air, the elasticated waistband of his underwear snapping against the underside of his balls and squeezing them tight.

 **“I wasn’t being serious.”** she mocked, having very clearly wanted this in the first place but loving the anxiety that her words spread across her victim’s face. **“I’ve had plenty of pretty boys wanting to scratch my chin, maybe rub my belly or pat my head, but you? My my, how _degenerate_! How _devilish_ , _hee hee_!”** fidgeting atop her legs she closed her eyes, wriggling her whiskers. **“Go on then. _Masturbate_ to me.”**

On command he began to jerk his semi-hard cock, awkwardly fumbling for a grip in its incomplete state. His hands focused on the base of the length, the flaccid top flopping about comically like a broken limb.

Why was this turning him on? How could he find kneeling to a domineering woman with his pants down and masturbating to her commands hot in any way, shape or form?

_Well, when you put it like that…_

But she was a _cat_. He was masturbating, in essence, to a _feline._

_Talk about hungry for puss._

**"I receive only the most peculiar visitors. Folk like yourself. It's enough to keep even a cat amused! I wonder if they wander home thinking about how _cute_ I am?”** Shalquoir sighed, staring at the growing stiffness of the human’s dick. It was amusing to watch, all the blood draining from his mind and swelling to his member – all of his thoughts surrendering to base pleasure. **“I doubt they touch themselves with _cats_ on their mind though! I bet you’re the sort who wouldn’t feel awkward rubbing one off with pets in the room! My my, how _lewd_ of you _Terry_.** ”

_She remembered his name._

_The way she said it felt so… Velvety._

While supposedly tenacious even he felt pleasure, and it overflowed from within. It travelled through the backbone he thought he’d lost long ago, spreading through his shoulders and shooting through his mouth as a loud, powerful whimper. His legs were getting number and number in such a perverted pose, all of his senses focusing on the full mast of his cock. **“What cute moans you have, _hee hee_!”** the feline purred with genuine amusement, his sounds as boyish as his looks. **"I can smell it from here, your _thing_. You may think it's dirty, but we cats love that. It's an acquired taste!”** she closed her eyes, surrounding herself in the smell for a moment, **“This adorable pussycat loves the smell of your _stinky_ cock. How does that make you feel? Hmm? Speak up now, you _degenerate_.”**

Permitted to speak he willed his mouth into motion, realising a moment too late that drool had pooled within. **“I-It feels good…”** he slurred, struggling to swallow his saliva. His wrist continued to work at his strained erection, twisting with every pump, **“So wrong, but _so_ …”**

 **“ _Right_?”** she finished his sentenced, rolling her eyes at such a corny turn of phrase, **“You have that glint in your eyes. And the scent…Of one with _quite_ the catalogue of sins… I wonder what else you’ve touched yourself to? Rutting doggies? Lusty mares? Oh, oh, lusty _stallions_?” ** she listed all sorts of base and foul things, wanting to place those twisted images into his mind’s eye. Why was it always the handsome ones with the most sinister lusts? **“Oh come on, I’m sure you’ve at least looked a _little_ bit.”**

Tenacious Terry had never seen himself as much of a pervert in his youth, but perhaps that was why these terrible urges were striking him so viciously? Decades of repression as a forced idol of youths across the kingdom he’d never given his yearning a chance to take root; all of those teenage girls, dreaming of his cock as their plaything – sucking it, fucking it, smothering it with primal urges. Legions of virgin girls who had him on their minds every day and every night.

_All the sex he’d never had._

_All the pangs he’d pent up inside._

**“Men are so prone to corruption. But that's what makes watching humankind so _delightful_.” ** Shalquoir chimed in, knowing full well what sort of thoughts were scrambling through his sex-addled mind. It wasn’t about quantity, it was about _quality_. And for a young and fertile man such as he a pretty girl-next-door would be _boring_. This was how it always started. **“Watching curious young men develop the most peculiar fascinations _never_ gets old. Sometimes their fascinations seem to take control, till there's very little man left _. Hee hee hee_ …”**

His breaths grew shallow, tightness filling up his lower half. Terry bit his lip to contain a groan of exertion, finding the cat’s mysterious gaze. **“I-I can’t hold on!”** he tried to say through grit teeth, his voice muffled.

But not now, he wanted _more_! Legions of young women were one thing, but it was all the _same_. There was no excitement in mere youths – all sheepish and clumsy, no form or grace. They were tame, lifeless, _boring_. Rushing with all sorts of strange endorphins and chemicals with long and unpronounceable names Terry’s brain was having the high of its life as the years caught up to him; digging deeper was all that he wanted, no matter what he found.

 **“You want to cum, but at the same time you don’t. What a _curious_ conundrum. _Hee hee hee_!”** Sweet Shalquoir chuckled at the sex crazed boy before her, eager to see what degeneracy his dirty mind thought of next. Feeling charitable she ordered him again, tail raised in amusement. **“Don’t touch it, let it calm down. You’re not allowed to cum yet, that would be too easy.”**

The ranger couldn’t resist her orders, his tugging hands awkwardly releasing his cock and raising above his head like he was a cornered criminal. Caught in the throes mere moments before orgasm his swollen member frantically twitched and trembled, desperate to pull itself over the edge but unable to do some without that last bit of stimulation.

The smug feline continued to stare at his need judgingly, enjoying the sight of his pained twitches – one, two, three, four; with every pulse of ecstasy the bead of precum upon his tip grew in size, misty yet fine all the same. It stunk just like him – the fascinating aroma of repressed arousal at last being freed from its bounds. It was like a juicy piece of tuna – a great rarity that she just couldn’t help sinking her teeth into.

Testingly Terry’s hands began to lower once again, watching the cat closely for any reaction. She continued to stare at his reddened cock, almost as excited as he was to get back to work.

 **“Well, you've grown quite a bit, haven't you? Your scent is lovelier than it's ever been. _Hee hee hee_ …”** watching her like the flagsman at the start of a race, he suddenly burst into action and pumped bestially at his burning cock with reckless abandon. She was having none of that, her whiskers flexing, **“Oh my, haste makes waste. _Hee hee hee_!”** she snickered, the archer’s expression miserable as he froze to a halt. If he was to do this, he was to do it right. **“Slowly, all across your dick. _Painfully_ slow. Careful now.”**

He obeyed her command, not because he wanted to but because he _needed_ to. This forced bout of cock control was too much for his body and brain to handle; the drilling urge to cum from before still pierced at his heart yet the precipice was miles from his grasp.

_It hurt so much._

He wanted to shoot it all out. He _needed_ to let go.

 **“Why do people try so hard to be beautiful? We cats are born beautiful, of course… But I have a feeling that you’re the lucky sort who doesn’t even need to try.”** she leant forward like a gloating predator, her purr changing to a lower, more contemplative pitch, **“You’re just like me; a cat, born beautiful, and coddled by the world. But don’t let it get to your head!”**

If she was trying to tell him something deep and meaningful it was having little effect, fucking and rutting all that filled his empty brain. He needed to find more ways to feel this pleasure - his hand wasn’t good enough, _he_ wasn’t good enough.

 **“I bet most of the women you know want to bed you, yet here you are rubbing one off to a condescending pussy cat. Naughty, naughty.”** her fangs clicked together mischievously, looking down upon the boy figuratively and literally. It wasn’t his fault that he was such a perverted mess; _that_ was the hilarious part. **“But you can’t help being such a lewd boy, can you Terry?”** she whipped her tail from side to side, her tone almost flirtatious. **“I’m just too cute, _hee hee_!”**

His fingers slick with precum he struggled to restrain himself, slowly running the bumps of his individual digits from head to base along his throbbing dick. His hips thrust as much as they could with every motion, trying to eke out every ounce of pleasure from his excruciatingly slow motions. Terry’s balls were swollen with pent up cum, struggling to bear their intense burden.

 **“It’s a terrible idea to give in to such degenerate lusts. If you yearn for such things for too long, you’ll never be happy with the ordinary again. Eventually all you’ll be able to do is push deeper, and _deeper_ , until your own morbid lusts rot you from the core…” **Sweet Shalquoir’s voice lost its theatrical charm, dripping with sincerity. This wasn’t a tease – this was a _warning_ , ever foreboding. **“I wonder what choice you will make? Maybe you’ll end up dead in a poisonous ditch somewhere, a big, perverted grin on your face? Maybe you’ll trade your soul for the feeling of a woman’s touch? Will that make you happy? Makes you think, _hee hee_ …”**

 **“I wanna _cum_.” ** Terry slurred hungrily, a string of his precum dangling from his tip and stuck to his fingers. A sticky patch of the stuff had developed on the ground, and grew with every moment. **“Please, let me…”**

 **“So that’s your answer.”** she smirked slyly, not at all surprised by his weak will. Somehow her smug face grew greater, her eyes rolling. **“Perverted men are _so_ predictable.”** her ears flicked irreverently, lazily pulling herself to a seated position. **“Hmmm, you’re just about ready to cum, I’d say. But we _are_ playing a game aren’t we?”**

They say the mind is the most suggestible at the pinnacle of orgasm, and the empty headed pretty boy had been straddling the point for the last few minutes. He didn’t want to be played with, yet at the same time it satiated the lusty monster that sat within his breast. It was lewd, perverted, slutty, and so many other warped words. The soreness in his cock hurt so much.

_To his corrupted mind it hurt so good._

**“When I say the magic word, you can cum. You’ll cum so much you’ll _never_ be happy with normal girls again. Not that you care, you silly _degenerate_. All you care about is feeling _good_ , right this instant, don’t you?” **Shalquoir snickered, her tongue hungrily running along the roof of her mouth. **“It’ll be the biggest orgasm you’ve ever had… _Yet_.”** she teased, the young ranger hanging on to every word she spake. This sort of power over perverted men never got old, _especially_ with the cute ones. **“But _only_ when I say the magic word, Terry. Because you’re the sort who _listens_ , _hee hee_!”**

Terry staggered forward, his free hand fumbling for balance on the pointy cobblestones. The commanding feline crooned forward sinisterly, reaching close to his ear with her suitably cat-like agility.

 **“Remember, _only_ when I say the word.” ** she whispered, the hairs on the boy’s neck standing on end. **“The word… _Enchanté_!”**

Yet with that announced she fell silent, urging him to continue rubbing at his shaft. She purred approvingly at every whimper and every groan – and she _never_ stopped purring. Terry murmured under his breath, the cat’s sensitive ears picking out each word. “ _Fuck_ ” and “ _Please_ ” dominated his lexicon, with the occasional utterance of the magic word he was desperate to hear – “ _Enchanté”_

 **“Pump _slooooowly_.”** Sweet Shalquoir sung in a sing song, her narrow eyes widening in amusement as he instantly followed her command. He was completely lost, wasn’t he? **“Well then Terry, let us _en_ gage in an _en_ quiry concerning _en_ tities possibly _en_ route to our current location.”** she kept her words unhurried, cruelly toying with the boy’s expectations. **“Oh, how it _en_ rages me when they are late, chaos will surely _en_ sue!”** Terry hissed with poorly contained agony, looking up at her with scruffy sweat-soaked hair. Her head tilted innocently, **“ _En_ vious are we? It’s only natural. _En_ demic in all men, in fact.”** she continued, having planned this tangent far ahead of time. Perhaps he deserved a break? **“My voice is _encha_ …?”**

Terry took a deep breath, his loins braced for what was to come; relief was nearing, sweet Sweet Shalquoir’s sweet sweet words tonguing at his ears.

 **“… _Enchanting_ , isn’t it? _Hee hee_!”** she snickered cruelly, pulling the starved slut of a man to the top of the cliff only to shove him back down again as he gained purchase. **“Such a well- _en_ dowed boy as you must be _en_ gulfed with anger right now, your _en_ gorged cock _en_ ticed by my every word.”** the running commentary grew in haste, a sense of enthusiasm filling her voice. She was used to people hanging on her every word, but _this_ was bliss. **“You’re panting like a dog! I wonder if you’re desperate _en_ ough to bark like one too?”**

The archer didn’t park per se, but he certainly snarled like a grumpy hound, hanging his head weakly as he continued his self abuse. His torso flexed and contorted with every movement, the whole of his body doing all that it could to hold on. It was as if his very being was wracked by conflict, unnaturally resisting his human nature.               

_Woof, woof._

_Awoo!_

**“ _Oh_? Is that going too far for you?”** Shalquoir mocked, nibbling on her perfectly pink paws. **“Still clinging onto your pride as you _en_ joy pumping your smelly _dick_ to a fuzzy old cat?” **that must’ve appealed to his tastes, his glans practically smooth with how horny he’d become, **“ _In_ corrigible little pervert, aren’t you? Such an _en_ igma.” **he keeled over completely at this point, his face pressed against the dusty cobbles yet his hands continuing to torture his length, **“You’d have to be stupid to be _en_ ticed like this, but you’re completely _en_ amoured by my words! _En_ thralled by that feeling in your balls, _en_ grossed by the promise that I’ll let you cum.”** he looked like he belonged down there – face full of dirt, bent in supplication, with all the rest of the trash. Perhaps she could make him her new welcome mat? The old one _was_ getting a bit bitty. **“Maybe I will… Maybe I won’t? I can’t _en_ sure you.”**

It was muffled but she could make it out – he was murmuring their magical word again and again, as if repeating it would encourage her to utter it. His knees were scraped and bruised, his bare ass shaking with mirth pathetically. This was _rich_.

 **“What’s that? You want me to _say_ something? Why, what _en_ raptured you so?”** she purred curiously, playing dumb. Three syllables stood between them; three simple sounds. **“But I’m afraid I’m _just_ a cat. What sort of cat can speak _En_ glish?”** her words made no sense, but that didn’t matter to her in the slightest. She leant close, feigning to listen to his whispers. **“ _Ench_ … _Enchan_ …?”** she struggled to pronounce, **“Oh, it’s on the tip of my toooongue, _hee hee_!”**

_Stroke, stroke, stroke._

His eyes were watering; he was _crying_.

_Fap, fap, fap._

**“ _Hee hee_!”** she snickered – how she _loved_ it when grown men cried. **“I think you’ve had _en_ ough, Terry. Your big _sweaty_ balls are ready to burst! You’ve been _en_ slaved by your sick passion haven’t you, you little _manslut_?”** she stood on her hind legs proudly, high and mighty. She was a queen, and he was _cattle_. **“ _Cum_ to my cute voice. _Cum_ to your _disgusting_ human lusts.”**

**_“En. Chan. Té.”_ **

_Paint the walls white._

She repeated it again and again, every exclamation being met with a spurt of man milk, **“ _Enchanté_! _Enchanté_!”** she purred in amusement, his hefty loads of spunk coating the floor in their plenty. **“ _Enchanté_! That’s it, give in to your _degeneracy_**!”

Terry could hardly even muster the strength to jerk himself off, letting his shaft unleash its load wherever it pleased. He shuddered and sniffed wetly as his balls were squeezed of all their worth, his warm tears smudging against his cheeks.

 **“Ooh, you smell _wonderful_. _Hee hee hee_ …”** Sweet Shalquoir sighed dreamily, gazing upon the broken boy crumpled in a heap upon her store’s floor. **“Rub the last of it out of your stinky dick, Terry. That’s it. Degenerate cum is my _favourite_ scent.” **she cooed, basking in the odour of corrupted youth, **“My shop will smell like your dirty sperm for days, I hope you’re _happy_.”**

It took time for his pulse to calm, the sound of the ocean gradually returning as the white noise of his orgasm dwindled into a faint buzz. Realisation didn’t ram into him with the brutal force that he’d been expecting, but rather slowly wandered up to him and looked him in the eye as it punted him in the shin. There was a line that he should have never crossed, yet in his naivety and lust for satisfaction he hadn’t step over it so much as leapt with a running start.

Terry’s legs refused to cooperate, his blood struggling to slog through his veins and return to his limbs and brain. Even now his cock continued to pulse and tremble emptily, his testicles refusing to offer any more juice for the day. The distance his ejaculation had reached was evidence enough – he was a complete and _total_ pervert.

 **“Did you enjoy our _game_?”** the fickle feline asked, wondering if he was literate yet. **“You give something, to gain something. That's the way humans like it, right?”** she flicked out a claw, examining it like filth under a fingernail. **“You’ve given me a _lovely_ story to share, and I’ve given you pleasure. I can’t wait to tell _everyone_ I know how lewd you are, _hee hee_!”**

Tenacious Terry, with all his tenacity, sat straight. **“… I-I came h-”**

 **“Yes you did.”** Sweet Shalquoir interrupted dryly, easily amused.  

Frustrated he raised his voice, speaking assertively, **“I came _here_ to… To learn how to stand up for myself.” ** weakly he clutched at his underpants, covering his quivering shame.

 **“Yet here you are on your knees.”** she observed, **“You’ve fallen so low now Terry, yet you worry about what others think?”** that sincerity from before returned to her voice – she was a _merchant_ by trade, and leaving her customers unsatisfied wasn’t good for business. **“You've lost everything, absolutely everything. _Hee hee_ …”**

 **“Some help you are.”** he muttered, blindly trying to slide his belt between the loops of his trousers. Why was everyone in the apocalypse so freakin’ cryptic? **“Can’t feel my _damn_ legs....”**

The therapeutic purring and the calm it provided suddenly came to a halt, as Shalquoir sighed irritably; so much for trying to help the helpless. “ **What is it you humans say when you’re not masturbating to things you _really_ shouldn’t be masturbating to…”** she was trying to give the boy genuine advice, masked by a thick layer of condescension. He was fairly endearing in all his idiocy, as far as humans went – she’d rather he _didn’t_ end up in a gutter somewhere. **“ _’Beware a man with nothing to lose_ ’. If you truly have nothing left, then nothing can hold you back.”** that was the bluntest she could make it for such a blunt-headed man, **“Understand, _manslut_? _Hee hee_!”**

Quietly he contemplated her words, his eyes downcast. Terry had tied himself to the dead Drangleic because it was all he had, clinging onto his past when it had died long ago. It was a childish belief to hold; that one day the kingdom would rise again and he could return to his cushy old life as an icon. The one thing that kept him going was inadvertently holding him back.

Drangleic was dead. The army was dead. His friends were dead. His job – if you could even call it that – was dead. Hell, for all he knew his sister Tracy was dead. The only thing left tying him down was his own ego. It was his own ego that had made him shy and anti-social; a very strange paradox, but once you thought about it it all made sense.

_He was so fixated on being Tenacious Terry that he couldn’t be the regular Terry._

So here he was, trounced and humiliated and his backwards lust made bare. It would take a word for him to be exiled by what amounted to civilisation in the end times, and yet he _still_ had shame and fear? It made absolutely no sense to think this way.

In a reach around away, coming – and _cumming_ – to Sweet Shalquoir had given him exactly what he needed. By releasing the pent up corruption from within the delusions of grandeur his name held were crushed into a fine pulp. He was just another faceless wanderer now, free to be his own man with his own destiny. He’d even spoken back to her; baby steps, but steps all the same.

 **“It seems that we must now part. Go on, pull up your trousers and run along.”** the feline stretched out across the table, mewling pleasantly as the tension in her muscles was released, “ **Maybe you’ll remember what I’ve said to you? Maybe it’ll help you on your way?”** she pulled herself up straight, and then sunk back to her usual napping posture. **“Not that I care. After all… I’m just a _cat_. _Hee hee_!”**

She completely stopped responding at this point, returning to lazily dangling her paw over the side of the shoddy old table she rest upon – bored of him, and having said her piece. Terry gradually rose to his feet and stumbled on wobbling legs out of the door. Fumbling with his trousers he almost slipped off the porch and tumbled down the sinkhole in the middle of Majula, yet he hastily caught himself against its rim.

He was on his hands and knees again, his gaze cast down the cavernous drop. He could see several bloated and emaciated corpses strewn about the many rafters and boards that stretched across the fall, all in various states of decay. Each and every one of them had their own convoluted tales, and all had come to equally gruesome ends.

Like it or not, Tenacious Terry wasn’t unique. Not in this world. One day he was going to end up like that too, his own self-destructive mind dragging him to his doom like a ticking firebomb on a short fuse. Embracing the degeneracy within may have been the core to granting him peace of mind, but with it came a grim price.

_There were so many ways to die._

_All he could hope for now was a clean one._

X

**_(A/N):_ ** _Well, that escalated quickly._

_Usually I like to base the dialogue of waifus in these stories around their actual lines from the games… Sweet Shalquoir’s a bloody goldmine for it, that’s for sure! Alas, this strange poor man’s JOI scenario involving a girl with zero outward sexual characteristics proved incredibly difficult for a first timer. I hope I got some sort of effect out of it…_

_Perhaps her words were a dark omen for what lies ahead? Regardless, next time we follow a rather unhinged Tenacious Terry as he journeys through Earthern Peak with bow and dirk in accord for reasons unclear even to him. Here’s to hoping he doesn’t find his “bane” at the top, in the form of a “toxic” woman! Hey hey!_

_… I’m bad at this._


	7. Mytha, the Baneful Queen

** PlayerUnknown’s Soulsborne Waifu Compendium **

**(A/N):** Today’s entry marks a bit of a dark turn in the Compendium, as we slip away from the relative safety of Majula and into the dangerous halls of Eathen Peak!

Reeling from his revelations in the previous chapter, rather confused and in ways torn by his own disillusion, an armed Tenacious Terry ventures forth through Harvest Valley to the tower in its centre without really knowing why. What serpentine menace could he hope to find within its halls? And what could such a beast have in store for a young ranger intruding on her territory?

 **WARNING:** Obvious sexual content, spelling errors, bad language, headless dim-witted lamia waifus with low self-esteem, weird anatomy, near-death, cringy and heavy dialogue, femdom, somehow managing to fetishise poison, light hypnotism, the product of playing a bit too much Monster Girl Quest over the years, crude jokes, protagonists with little personality, OOC behaviour, non-lore friendly events, and my first story in around six months and my first LEMON in probably four years!

** Chapter Seven: Mytha, the Baneful Queen **

He wasn’t quite sure why he came here.

Earthen Peak had never been on the top of his list of holiday destinations back in the day. A large, menacing tower looming over a vast expanse of desolate wasteland where the blight of industry raped the virgin soil for all its worth? Not quite his thing, believe it or not.

Probably the most surprising thing was how little it’d really changed. While he’d only ever seen it from afar in the past he could safely say that it had always looked like the lair of some calculating villain who’d laugh to the skies as his zombie hordes marched out and conquered the planet in his name.

Or maybe that was just him?

But what brought him to this wretched hive of foes and foul? In what world was it a good idea? Maybe he hoped to find some sort of purpose outside of his comfort zone? Maybe it would be something that would build upon his character? Like so many others he wandered aimlessly, never really knowing why.

Tenacious Terry navigated the spiralling verticality of the crooked spire, utilising a generous hodgepodge of stealth and marksmanship to achieve his ends. He was actually beginning to get the hang of it at this point, and that filled him with a certain sense of pride which he’d never truly partaken in in the past. He’d never really _had_ any talents before – unless sucking up to people counted as a talent – but archery was swiftly becoming one of his finest.

As a Royal Ranger with zero combat expertise he’d shot at stationary short-distance targets whilst smiling at applauding school children a thousand times before, yet he’d never truly tested his mettle against genuine foes. Now he was with the big boys, fighting worthy prey rather than bullying braindead undead thralls.

_High risk, high reward, high adventure._

_Was this what they called a battle high?_

His finger itched at his quiver like an abstinent cleric surrounded by jail bait girls in short skirts – just one more shot, he needed to _unload_.

The cryptic words of Sweet Shalquoir still snoozed and snuggled at the back of his head, much like she often did in her dozy little shack. Now that he thought about it that was probably the real reason he’d come to this miserable place; far away from the familiarity of home, his name bore neither weight nor glory. He could escape the expectations he’d levied on himself and simply _be_ himself.

_Regular Terry._

_No less tenacious, mind._

It was ever so liberating to wander these halls with nothing to prove and no expectations. He was freed from his baffled conscience in the titular peak of Earthen Peak, and it must’ve been that enticing prospect that tugged him by a leash like a dog.

A _degenerate_ little dog, on his hands and knees.

_He’d done his best to forget that part._

Bathed in a thin film of sweat from head to toe the exerted archer sidled through a passage past a duo of headless acrobats, who swayed from left to right with poison-coated knives in hand. He hadn’t seen very much in his sheltered life, but even he felt that posting watchmen without eyes, ears or noses tended to be a poor life choice. No wonder a novice of the craft of stealth such as he was having such an easy time slinking past patrols.

With the sort of speed only a man with a new lease on life could muster Terry made to summit a ladder, rickety and rotten and _just_ tall enough to get his muscles stinging. Pulling himself up like a fat skinny dipper crawling out of shark infested waters, he had about three seconds to get his bearings before three things happened.

First, although probably the least important part, was that he realised he was getting frightfully low on bodkin tipped arrows. While he’d risen to the challenge of Earthen Peak it hadn’t all been sunshine and rainbows – it had been a rough and draining journey, his impromptu lessons in long distance marksmanship having taken a toll on his reserves. You tended to grow a bit complacent with your quiver when you spent most of your time bullseying easy targets or otherwise moping about how no one understood you. Next time he’d bring more shots.

 _If_ there was a next time.

Second was a bit more important, but only a tad – one of the lean yet somehow muscular Grave Wardens of the tower had been posted at the other end of the corridor he’d arrived in, and with a silent exclamation brandished his armaments and readied himself for battle. Terry had managed to throw one of the Warden’s pals off a rafter and down into the depths of the spire some hours ago with an arrow shaft in the ankle – unbeknownst to him karmic justice was rearing its ugly head.

Thrice, and by far the largest source of worry, was that this Grave Warden was _fast_ , and was currently mid-way through an impressive leaping lunge with his spear trained straight for Terry’s guts like he was a common bass.

_That was technically four things in retrospect._

With no grace but an outstanding reaction time the tenacious ranger coiled his legs and shot himself across the dirt like a puck, sliding between the rag-faced warden’s legs to relative safety. One had to wonder how he’d managed to get so much distance; did he sweat baby oil?

Reaching for his quiver he pulled out his trusty dirk; whether or not it was trusty being the subject of its first test right this instant. Directly under the confused lug Terry brandished the blade and jammed it straight into the guy’s lower back. It took a moment for the ranger to even realise that he’d pierced decrepit flesh, the Grave Warden seemingly unfazed.

Pivoting on his heel the guard brought down the edge of his shield, hoping to crush the intruder’s windpipe with the jagged point of its silverblack form. Still slippery from years of running away from his problems – and also the sheer amount of baby oil like sweat upon his person – Terry swung to the side and evaded once more, the warden mutely miffed.

Rolling to create some distance the archer rose to a crouch and clumsily nocked an arrow, taking aim at his foe. As if needing to point out the obvious the mean, lean machine brought his shield to bear and protected his body from such an assault – stalemate.

Thinking quickly Terry aimed upwards, shooting out the chain of a dangling pot and bringing it down upon the Grave Warden’s head. In all intents and purposes what with it being a chain the arrow _should’ve_ pinged off and Terry _should’ve_ been skewered for lunch, but worn by decades of abuse the links were rusted and primed to snap.

He hadn’t known that at the time, he’d just gotten lucky.

While shrouded by rags it was pretty clear what sort of expression the guard had before he was splattered across the floor, his limbs sticking out from underneath the pot and twitching comedically as his life less-than-comedically faded away. Stumbling to his feet Terry approached the corpse and plucked his dagger from its gory guts.

Whose bright idea was it to put a massive clay pot up there on chains in the first place?

He’d been trying to piece together exactly what Earthen Peak was as he went, but he was pulling up blanks. Every time he spotted something that bore some semblance to logic and geometry he’d stumble upon something else and he’d spiral all the way back to square one. It was some sort of refinery, he’d concluded, that produced… _Something_ , no doubt with the resources of the desolate Harvest Valley that surrounded it.

Gathering the last of his bearings Tenacious Terry moved onwards, anxiously feeling at his depleted quiver. If his previous spar was anything to go by his dirk was more for spreading butter than cutting meats; stealth was the only option from this point on.

The shoddy fencing of the tower’s balcony broke off to the left, a narrow path against the spire wall leading up to a rickety wooden windmill, clearly of some importance yet falling apart at the seams. Some hunch of sorts tugged at his metaphorical sleeve and urged him to set it alight and burn it to cinders, but he ignored it like he always had – ever since his first arson as a boy at choir practice he’d promised Tracy never again.

And besides, what would be the point? What would he even gain from burning down one of the Peak’s many hundred mills? It wasn’t like it would do him any favours; it’d probably draw more attention to him and make his ascent even harder than it was already proving to be.

Without reluctance he left it be, keeping his dirk on hand.

What was the worst that could happen?

Terry found little resistance as he moved on, save for the odd decapitated guardsman pacing about aimlessly. He’d _definitely_ made the right call – the place would’ve been swarming with all sorts of creepy crawlies if he’d started a blaze below. Skipping over a pond of thick green sludge he ascended a short set of stairs that led up to a long, featureless corridor into the great unknown.

He had no idea what the sludge was or what it did, but in the perfect world he’d never need to find out. Terry may’ve been on the naïve side, but even he could put two and two together – green slime in an evil foreboding fortress was a _big_ no no.

Just ahead was a wall of pearl white fog, rippling with some foreign force and obscuring the view beyond. The sweaty ranger clutched onto the hilt of his glorified piece of cutlery, a deep chill of foreboding rippling through his spine.

There was something very _final boss-y_ about this place.

Terry could do this, he’d gotten this far. He’d proven today that he had the will to forge his own destiny, and no one could take that from him. He wasn’t just some pretty poster boy posing in portraits; he was a real ranger, rippling with might. His muscle wasn’t all looks, it was safe to say.

Pushing through the veil with blade braced and ego erect he prepared himself for the worst.

He wasn’t ready for the worst.

Instantly he was waist high in the green gunk he’d been avoiding up to this point, his bow and arrows soaked to the oaken root and stealing him of two-thirds of his arsenal. More to the point that _boss-y_ hunch from moments prior was bang on the nose; bearing a lance so long that it must’ve been compensating for something was a large, jade-tinted serpent with the upper body of a curvaceous human dame – minus the head, mind, which dangled by its hair from her free hand.

What was it with this place and headless people?

 **“Who dares trespass in Mytha’s chamber?”** the head spoke, the arm that held her reaching forward so that her head could see for itself, **“Mytha – that is, _me_ – does not take kindly to such impudence! Ready thyself for combat!”**

Finishing abruptly and in her element within the muck she launched herself forward, the encumbering slime clinging to Terry’s limbs as he tried fruitlessly to roll to the side. The roughly circular chamber’s footing was obscured by the thick sludge, and the ranger found himself completely submerged for the briefest of moments.

 **“-low and _insidious_ killer, my poisons!” ** Mytha mocked, the beginning of her sentence muffled as Terry pulled himself to the surface. **“It starts at the nerves and paralyses my, _Mytha’s_ , prey!”**

_He had a sneaky suspicion her name was Mytha, just a hunch._

The serpent pulled her twisted trident from the earth, her swaying body almost seeming to blur as it went. **“Let us play, _boy_.”**

It would be an embarrassment to call what ensued a fight, with it generally boiling down to Tenacious Terry frantically wading through the green waters to try and make distance as the lamiae lazily chased him like a cat would swat at flies. This was more a demented game of tag than a battle.

There was something wrong, besides that whole headless snake woman thing. The adrenaline of battle had dried up within moments, replaced by a weighty exhaustion that drained at his mind and body. Painted a sickly green Terry stumbled against a wall, fumbling for his weapon as his eyes played tricks on him.

 **“Oh, what’s the matter?”** Mytha hissed teasingly, her expression smug. The boy’s pupils were growing wider and wider; he could see colours he never thought existed. **“Distracted? Feeling _tired_?” ** her voice boomed within his brain one moment, only to become a husky whisper seconds later. **“You could _always_ give in to the beautiful Mytha, Baneful Queen.”**

Wildly flailing with his knife like a child in a tantrum he exerted all of his strength, howling in anger and confusion as the titular Queen of Earthen Peak amusedly watched several yards away. To him he was slicing at malefic visions; thousands upon thousands of beasts encircling.

_He was hallucinating._

_Her poisons were taking root._

Eventually his struggles ceased, the knife slipping out of his hands and sinking into the pool with a disgusting squelch.  Terry leant against the wall with mouth agape, his chest working overtime just to keep him standing. **“W-What is this…”** he slurred, his tongue strangely limp and salivating, **“Wuh… What _are_ you?”**

 **“The beginning, and the _end_.”** Mytha mused poetically, glad that she could finally use that phrase in an appropriate situation. Casting aside her lance the towering lamiae loomed over the young ranger menacingly; a predator with her prey cornered. **“Succumb to my toxins, let them fill your every pore.”**

Sinking further against the wall exhaustion gripped at his being, the thick liquid clinging to his skin and stinging at the surface like a thousand insect bites. Yet what had started as a dull sting gradually began to evaporate, and within moments evolved into a terrifying calm of a man completely subdued. The poison had been absorbed by his flesh, and taken his body hostage.

If he was in the state of mind to describe it he would’ve probably compared it to the sensation of blood flowing back into a numb limb – tingly, yet warm and pleasant all the same. This venom could’ve been dissolving his innards, not that he was even _capable_ of caring.

Mytha’s head was hung inches away from his, her purple lips curled into a pleased smirk. **“See? It’s good, isn’t it? Letting go?”** the scent of her breath filled Terry’s nostrils, the heat caressing his mind, **“Not fighting back…”** the archer struggled to raise his eyes, gazing into the naga’s own. They were white and plain – simple, _calming_. **“Yes, _yes_ , look at me. _Just_ at me. I am your world, I am _everything_.”**

Her body sauntered and swayed forward, fair breasts like hypnotic pendulums as she came closer and closer. The pacified Terry did nothing to resist as she pressed her chest against his face, lightly brushing her dark nipples across his lips. This contact sent a long lasting ripple throughout his nerves, like a drop of water producing rings across a vast sea. It was like his entire body had been slowed down, with every single sensation that hit it being elongated two or threefold.

Mytha’s body continued to smother the man with her pert tits as a clawed hand grasped onto his shoulder, pulling him closer into her scented flesh. Her body glistened a glowing green, her very being filled to the brim with a unique cocktail of toxins and venom – the _royal jelly_ , to the paltry slop that she and her new toy were submerged in.

Through his hazy vision Terry reached for the Baneful Queen’s breasts, his buzzing hands cupping and squeezing at them lustfully. The lamiae reeled back ever so slightly, the arm bearing her head quivering ever so slightly from such a display. His hands were the delicate sort of a noble or highborn boy, experimentally clutching at her chest as if hungry for the sweet poisons within.

Awkwardly Mytha’s arm craned forward, giving her eyes a good view from above. She’d expected him to lifelessly submit, yet here he was returning her lust with his own. **“… H-How are they?”** the queen stammered. Mytha had always been self-conscious about her swollen, poison bloated breasts; not that she’d ever told anyone, **“Perfect, like _me_ , Mytha?”**

Terry nuzzled against them affectionately, plastering her tits with kisses and mindlessly worshipping the chest of a woman who’d been trying to run him through with a trident some five minutes earlier after accusing him of trespassing. With a blatant sense of reluctance that only an idiot with a poison-addled brain could miss Mytha pulled him away, bringing her head close once more. Her cheeks had become a darker shade of green – a timid blush for a woman whose blood was toxic.

 **“Good boy, _good_.”** she hissed approvingly, increasingly enamoured by his perverted actions, **“You have pleased your Queen.”** the head swayed ever so slightly as her body’s free hand traced a vicious nail across his chest, **“Your pretty, _gorgeous_ Queen, Mytha.” ** the claw pulled away, the scratching sensation still trailing miles behind, **“ _Right_?”**

Gradually at first her long, serpentine tail began to coil and constrict around the ranger’s legs, tightly binding him before raising him from the dripping muck, his clothes soaked through with liquid poison. Still the toxins continued their advance, slipping through his nerves and getting ever closer to the juicy centre. **“Y-Yes, you are.”** Terry agreed without a hint of irony or fear, the tremble on his tongue being that of pleasure and nothing more. **“Beautiful, gorgeous, pretty, _sexy_ …”** his strained vocabulary found the word it was looking for and stuck to it, “ **Sexy, _sexy_ Mytha. So, so _sexy_.”**

Mytha laughed with a sense of anxiety, suddenly flustered in spite of herself. Some queen she was, getting tongue-tied by a mere _servant_. **“You flatter me with these words!”** she purred approvingly, only for a distrusting scowl to fill her lips. While she had never been good at spotting lies, she knew that she was a _constant_ victim of them. **“… Not like you mean it, boy.”**

 **“I-I want to be close to you.”** Terry reasserted himself with a certain sense of haste, scrambling frantically to save his queen from offence. **“To see you, touch you, taste…”** in a poison stupor he was telling the truth; she looked _beautiful_ to him, the disgusting tastes he’d been trying to bury returning in full force under such extreme circumstances.

In some ways she looked beautiful even before the poison had taken root, in all his sin.

_A queen of beasts and vermin._

_What did that make him?_

The ranger’s eyelids fluttered heavily, his spine struggling to stand straight as scaled coils tickled and caressed, **“You’re my everything, my… _World._ ”**

If she flushed any deeper her cheeks would’ve sparkled a fluorescent green with bio-luminescence, **“R-Really?”** she gasped giddily, unfortunately lacking the feet to stomp on the floor in excitement. Her tail pulled him close, practically nose to nose. **“An ugly, fat, old snake like me?”**

Fat?

Ugly?

Where was she getting all of these impressions from? She was the queen of a bloody industrial empire and one of the last functioning kingdoms of a world gone mad! What had happened to her self esteem? Did she have something she felt she needed to prove?

Was she like him, paranoid of the life she’d left behind with the fall of Drangleic?

Terry would’ve given a deep and motivational speech about trusting in others and believing in yourself, but his fried brain had lost most of the larger words in its repertoire and left him a tad bit on the stupid side. **“Slim, pretty… Uhhh… _Hot_ …” **he struggled to list some compliments, **“S-Smooth black hair…”**

Wallowing in self pity what had once been a caressing grip became more crushing and vice like, threatening to squeeze the archer to a fine pulp that would taste quite good with pineapple. **“… Y-You’re _lying_ , no one likes me.”** Mytha moped, her eyes downcast. Even her body sunk in defeat, her shoulders brought low. **“Everyone hates me, that’s why I never leave my chamber. You’ll probably laugh behind my back like all the rest!”**

Even under the threat of being crushed the only thing on his mind was the Queen, **“No, no!”** he struggled to wheeze; he was pretty sure he’d just cracked the fifth rib of the day. **“Y-You’re really quite sweet!”**

 **“Between me and those tarty Desert Sorceresses, who would you rather kiss?”** her tail tightened interrogatively. **“ _Hmm_?”**

_Make that number six._

Terry had no idea who she was even talking about, but if one thing was for certain it was that Mytha’s full lips had an allure about them. Maybe it was a side effect of the toxins, but their dark purple shades almost seemed to ripple like a fine opal. He could only wonder how they would feel pressed against his.

_Or wrapped around his…?_

**“Well, _you_ …”** he murmured, feeling rather hot under his metaphorical collar. **“I… I’d rather kiss _you_.”**

His words had much more than the intended effect, her self-esteem skyrocketing alongside her feminine libido. A fork tongue licked at those succulent lips of hers, her spittle a lush green in contrast to the stagnant pool below. **“G-Go on then.”** she pushed, her coils loosening just a tad. **“ _Kiss me_ …”**

Neither he nor her had really kissed before - unless you counted overbearing aunts and uncles – yet that didn’t stop them for a moment. Like cheeky teens hiding under the stairs they pursed their lips and went for it, Terry’s restricted arms and Mytha’s rather peculiar head situation making it quite the amusing display.

Much of the ‘ _kiss’_ was a flurry of tongues, the cumbersome and damp bulk of the ranger’s against the graceful and slick grace of the lamia’s. While this was his first _real_ kiss even he was taken aback by the peculiar technique of the Baneful Queen, her tongue like her body constricting and squeezing with its incredible length.

She wrung and she pulled at his tongue firmly, the scorching heat between their lips and the delirium of her toxins overwhelming even now. It was a sloppy, messy affair, her poisoned saliva – her _royal jelly_ as it were – settling in his mouth and slipping down his throat with every swallow. When taken directly in small doses this pure venom rapidly spread across his system and intensified the buzz in a matter of moments, in contrast to the slow advance of the stuff seeping through his skin.

Her poisons targeted the nerves at first, and as an unintentional side effect – which they discovered at that precise moment – cut the middle man and zipped straight for the brain if ingested. In essence Mytha’s saliva was its very own aphrodisiac, melting away at the brain so very slowly and gently that it did very little lasting damage to the mind. Her poisons didn’t drown you to death so much as give you a cosy bath, making you pleasantly buzzed and stupid for a few hours at most as you simmered in warm venom.

Mytha could feel the effect she was having, her toy’s stirring member pushing against his drenched chaps and straining against her coils. She pulled away with a lewd, wet sound, her tongue tasting the air. **“Look at you, all big and hard.”** her tail slowly ran along his bulge, the alternating bumps of her scales and smoothness of her skin sending all sorts of cute expression across Terry’s face. **“You’re rather handsome, _sweetie_. Would you like to…?”**

Terry gasped as her tail easily removed his soaked trousers, revealing his shame and releasing it from its bonds. Mytha hung her head close to thing as it poked out between her coils, an approving hiss punctuating her impromptu inspection. She wasn’t quite sure what constituted as ‘ _big’_ what with her own large size, but it was definitely hefty enough for her voracious needs.

Raising her head to look the young man in the eyes again she pressed what stood for her waist against his hips, brushing her wet womanhood against his twitching tip. While Terry wasn’t the most knowledgeable when it came to snake anatomy – which you could forgive him for – he knew _exactly_ what he was touching.

_And he wanted it._

Still she continued to tease, letting his mind marinate in her toxins for just a little bit longer. Her tight pussy dripped its pristine poison; not a single liquid in her body was without her exotic venom. A trickle of it slipped over the bulbous head of Terry’s cock and slid down its shaft, veins bulging with the delightful mix of their combined essences.

Tenacity broken, Terry wasn’t beyond begging, **“P-Put it in…”** he whimpered, slowly prodding his member against the folds of her hole. Mytha tenderly swayed to and fro, caressing the very tip with her slit but continuing to deny him her entirety. Whenever he strained to push forward she’d pull back the same distance; she was in complete control. She brought her head close, her breasts bouncing ever so slightly as she crooned over him dominantly, **“I’m _dying_ to…”**

_Dying indeed._

Maybe she’d waited for the perfect moment, stringing the ranger along just long enough so that the feeling they shared would be at the pinnacle of pleasure? Terry would never know for certain as the naga plunged his cock into her, her walls quivering with the same lustful expectation as he. A long, drawn out moan escaped from her lips, her body’s breasts stuffed against his face and muffling the sound to a dull hum.

Mytha’s head panted for breath behind him, her body having wrapped both its arms across his back whilst keeping a firm grip on her hair. With his sense of time distorted by all the chemicals surging through his body, all he knew for sure was they were joined together like this for quite some time. His dick fit inside her like an undersized glove, the pressure within unbearable; ironically even her _pussy_ was a tight squeeze.

 **“Ready?”** she hissed, directly behind his ear. Sensually she brushed her lips against his shoulder, placing a soft, if sloppy, smooch on his neck. **“R-Ready to pump your _thick_ cock into my soaking snake slit?” ** lust could help when it came to dirty talk, but a lack of experience in the art left Mytha’s words corny but endearing in their own special way, **“Let my poisons bathe your mind and body… _Drown_ in my venom.”**

Bringing her face before him to gaze into his dreary eyes Mytha’s body began the slow, awkward process of making love for the first time. Her thrusts took an eternity to find a comfortable rhythm, quickly riding his shaft one moment only to suddenly press down to his hilt and stop at another.

There were a billion facts against them – the tightness of her pussy, its peculiar shape, its position on her body, her interesting head arrangement and her large serpentine shape and size making it incredibly difficult for two people who were never meant to have sex to effectively have sex. The god of gods was cruel to degenerate young men and headless snake women indeed.

His cock basking in the pure poison of Mytha’s virgin hole, Terry’s jaw trembled with satisfaction. **“My tongue, it’s…”** his tongue slurred uncooperatively, weighed down by the ever growing dosage. **“S-So much…”**

Mytha brought her head in for another kiss, struggling to keep her balance as her body continued to ride Terry’s need. The forked end of her tongue explored the damp confines of the archer’s mouth, lovingly kneading and rubbing at his numb muscle. Every muffled moan from her was punctuated by a serpentine hiss with almost a feral hint to it; she was scratching an itch that she’d had all these years alone in her chamber without a husband to call her own.

_Even fair maidens need a good fucking every now and then._

This was bliss. To be with his new queen like this, smothered by her tongue and tits as she tended to his throbbing desire?

_Bliss._

Beautiful? Gorgeous? Sexy? Those words weren’t even the beginning of it. There were no words to explain the ecstasy of having her poisons fill his veins and dominate his body, mingling with his blood and muscles and even the very oxygen he breathed. He was inside her, and at the same time she was inside him – Mytha’s very essence flowed within his body. The Baneful Queen truly was his _world_.

Terry’s breaths were growing more and more laboured. At first he thought that he was approaching orgasm, but this exhaustion continued to grow heavier and heavier as Mytha’s dripping pussy relentlessly milked at his perfectly willing cock. At this point he wouldn’t have been surprised if half of the blood rushing to his groin was in fact her venom.

Soon every breath became a conscious thought, his pulse ringing more and more sporadically with every thrust. Their bestial kiss broke for a moment, the panting lamiae lustfully nibbling on his lower lip as her breath returned to her. **“Wuh…”** Terry slurred, speaking a noticeably slower pace. A strand of drool still strung between his tongue and Mytha’s – a peculiar, milky white. **“W-What’s going… I can’t… Hard to _breathe_ …”**

Mytha’s voice was calm and assuring, in spite of her chilling revelations, **“My neuro-toxins slow the body to a crawl. They start…”** she smooched him wetly which his weakly returned, her damp breasts pressing against his chest, **“On the _nerves_ , making them sensitive to the touch.”** another smooch, shorter but more forceful, **“Then they bathe the _brain_ , making it dazed and suggestible. And the- _Ah_!”** the naga yelped cutely as the tip of Terry’s cock pressed _that_ spot, her hips bucking approvingly as her body tugged at her hair. She growled lewdly, her breaths heavy **“T-Then your heart and lungs slowly fail. Slower, and slower, making you ever so sleepy…”**

The hypnotic jiggle of her tits made the desire to sleep increasingly powerful. “ **Slower…. And slower…”** Terry sighed weakly, the coil his dick and balls rest upon stained with their combined juices. It took him longer than he should have to piece together the situation, **“B-But I’ll _die_ …”**

Once again the Baneful Queen smothered her toy with her breasts, her free hand running his hair between its fingertips lovingly. **“I’ll keep you _just_ below the lethal dose, sweetie.”** she promised, the foolish ranger hungrily lapping and suckling at her nipple for another taste of her pure venom in spite of himself. Mytha flushed at his forwardness, having half expected him to struggle. **“It’ll feel _so_ good… Don’t you trust me?”**

The lamiae raised her head aloft, wadding a pure drop of her venom in her mouth with dextrous movements of her tongue. Eventually satisfied she opened her lips and let the long, glowing strand of green spit stretch ever so slowly down to the submissive Terry. With an anxious shudder the ranger parted his lips and let his queen complete this obscene act – a final sign that he was willing to experience this dangerous life-threatening pleasure that only Mytha could offer. She caressed his cheek as her potent poison came closer, comforting his frayed and erratic nerves.

He let it pool in his mouth.

And then he swallowed.

_It tasted sweet._

The effect took hold of him in a matter of moments, his body completely locking up from head to toe as the mischievous Mytha upped the tempo and violently fucked Terry’s slippery cock with her ever constricting slit. A misty white began to cling to the edges of his vision, taking more and more as his ears began to ring. Every moan, every groan, every squeal and every yip echoed again and again as his overwhelmed body struggled to make sense of it all.

Mytha’s fingers interlocked with his for a sturdy grip, her flat stomach flexing as she pushed again and again, up and down, _up and down_ , like a piston. She never stopped working, up and down, _up and down_ , like the mills of Earthen Peak. Her tits bounced, up and down, _up and down_ , to the frantic rhythm of their degenerate act.

Was that death he could see; that strange white light encroaching on his eyes? He couldn’t quite tell. He didn’t really care all that much, the fear being washed away and his mind numbed to all else but this rhythm. He could feel his queen’s venom sloshing about his stupid, empty head; _her_ territory now, _her_ place to think.

_Up and down, up and down._

But soon even that faded. All he could feel now was his burning cock, his balls heaving with thick, manly cum that needed to be released. Somewhere along the way he had ascended to a higher plane, experiencing an eternity of inner peace every single second. His brain, starved of oxygen and blood and engorged with a treacherous dosage of toxin, was practically sizzling like an egg on a frying pan.

The Baneful Queen was hanging him over the gates of death by the length of his shaft; if she so much as shifted her grip and released but a drop more of poison he would die right there and then.

There was nothing but white now, the feeling of flesh on scale and cock in dripping pussy dominating what little senses he had left. The only sound he could hear was his own heart beat, each thud more delayed than the last.

 _Thud_.

…

_Thud._

…

…

… … _Thud_.

_And then that sound stopped._

Mytha rode out to her own breathtaking orgasm, the very tip of her tail flailing wildly as the spasms shook the length of her body. Hilting the rock hard member she tasted the air for her sweeties’ sweat – she _loved_ that taste, it was an intoxicating change to the singular smell that dominated the chamber; that needed no explanation.

 **“What was it like experiencing _heaven_ , sweetie?”** she hissed lewdly after regaining her composure, slowly grinding against Terry’s fully engulfed length with the grace of a belly dancer.

No response.

The Baneful Queen froze, all her smug flirtiness and pride in the pleasures she could provide burning away as she stared at the motionless ranger. **“S-Sweetie?”** she stammered, a billion and one possibilities taking root. In panic she shook him within her coils, his head lolling to the side. **“… N-Not like this, no…”**

Terry suddenly broke out into a coughing fit, hacking his lungs out as his breaths finally returned to him. Her terror overridden by abject joy within moments the lamiae pulled him into a crushing embrace, smothering his cheeks with kiss after kiss. With the power of her poison reaching its peak his body had finally adapted and gotten ready to deploy its own countermeasures, the poison – while still there – becoming increasingly subdued and dormant. The archer was rapidly regaining his senses, a peculiar feeling gripping his every limb and organ – while groggy, he could at least _think_ now.

 **“I thought you’d left me…”** Mytha whispered quietly, not entirely meaning to be heard. Quickly retracting from such worried words she held her chest high, unintentionally slapping Terry about the chin with her breasts, **“… _Obviously_ you hadn’t, because I, Mytha, knew exactly what I was doing!”**

Her coils tightened once more, yet to Terry it felt more like a protective hug than anything else; she’d almost lost him once, and in spite of her brave façade she would make _damn_ sure that something like that never happened again. With a deliciously moist squelching sound Mytha freed his member from the confines of her body, tenderly rubbing her toned belly against his slippery erection. Hanging her head close Terry was about to ask her **“What are you doing?”** but she silenced him with another smooch – all lip, what with the fear poisoning him again so soon.

Breaking this kiss she tried to clumsily nuzzle her nose against his, but dangling so loosely from her fist all she really managed to do was bonk their noses together. She didn’t miss a beat, **“Still haven’t cum, _ssssweetie_?” ** Mytha hissed, her free hand slowly rubbing his restless need. Terry’s chest shuddered in response, maintaining eye contact. **“Do you like it when I say it like that? Like a _ssssnake_?”** the young ranger answered with a flush of the cheeks, prompting a girly giggle from the naga, **“ _Ssssweetie_? Does that get under your skin?”**

 **“Y-You’re so _ssssexy_ …”** Terry murmured, only to pause awkwardly under his queen’s unblinking gaze, **“… Was that offensive?”**

Pressing the point of her talon gently into the oozing pool of precum on his tip, it was clear that she’d found his attempt amusing. He shuddered as the razor edge elegantly grazed across the flared head of his member, her controlled strokes sparing him any injury. What was the appeal of being with someone who could very easily kill you, yet ached to satisfy your every need? Her soaked coils twisted and constricted about the base of his shaft, squeezing and bullying his aching balls.

Mytha tutted, **“Look at what you’ve done, _ravaging_ my poor little snake pussy.” ** she purred perversely, her dripping hole stretched for all of its worth. **“I-I wonder what your friends would think if they found out that you’d fucked a serpent…? I think mine would be jealous of me…”**

While Mytha was far much better than him at keeping up an aloof façade – no doubt because of her status as royalty – even she wasn’t capable of completely hiding her feelings away. They gazed at eachother wordlessly, as they were wont to do. There was a certain charm to seeing her show her true colours, even for a moment; for a Baneful Queen, she could be a frightfully sensitive worrywart.

_A sensitive worrywart who loved a rough bout of sex every now and then._

_Don’t we all?_

**“H-Hey!”** Terry gasped, a rather flustered looking Mytha pinching his tip between her claws and snatching him from his endearing monologue.

 **“You made your Queen cum, _sweetie_.”** she reminded, suddenly releasing his member from her clutches. Both of her hands held onto her head like a ball, which she began to lower. **“And a Queen must repay her debts.”**

Being a rather liberated and open minded youth he’d heard about ‘ _face fucking’_ as a boy, but he never thought it could be quite this literal. Firmly gripping onto her own head Mytha rapidly began to drive it upon the restrained Terry’s length, not even taking the time to tease and build him up and going straight for the kill. What with her serpentine disposition deepthroat came naturally, her prehensile tongue ravelling around his shaft and squeezing it as she suckled noisily.

Terry had still been rather groggy up to this point, but her sudden action quickly pulled him out of lalaland as she kept up her constant, fast paced speed. Slobber and spit drenched his balls as she willed his dick all through her mouth and into her throat – something he would’ve questioned the physics of if he wasn’t on the receiving end.

Slowly he slipped his hands out of Mytha’s bonds, his sensitive palms resting upon Mytha’s hair and brushing it between finger and thumb. The lamiae came to a stop for a moment, wondering if she’d done something wrong; not in the _slightest_. Holding onto her hands he slowly began to push and pull, gradually building up motion once again at his own, more affectionate pace. The Baneful Queen, trusting her pet’s judgement, released her head from her grip and relinquished full control to the archer.

Looking into her eyes Terry began to thrust into the warm confines of her mouth, Mytha’s body quietly rubbing her pussy as she witnessed such a lewd act of lovemaking – a pity she didn’t have her _own_ eyes. Even now her tail continued to ripple about the ranger’s body like a luxurious pillow, massaging his muscles from head to toe.

His palms cupping Mytha’s cheeks he scratched at her ears and played with her hair as he went, her ebon mane straight and well kept in spite of the odds. The lamiae moaned approvingly at his playful movements, her chin continuing to slap against his balls with every push. Spending much of her time dangling by the roots of her hair she often wanted someone to caress her aching scalp, and Terry’s soft palms were ecstasy for her weary locks; about _time_ she found someone who appreciated all the time she spent combing.

There were too many variables that led to his orgasm, but it was safe to say that each and every one contributed in its own unique way. The unwavering eye contact, the talented suckles of Mytha, her serpentine tongue coiled about his length, the sight of her headless body lustfully fingering itself, the _literal_ act of face fucking that was ensuing, the dormant toxins in his veins, he could go on.

But if one thing was for certain it was that his orgasm was powerful, and it was _large_. Pushing Mytha to the hilt of his cock he held her in place, and without protest she continued to suckle as her swaying body furiously fondled her breasts with one hand and rubbed at her womanhood with the other. Terry gasped as his cum was deposited directly into his queen’s awaiting mouth, not a single drop leaving her lips – this cum was to be _savoured_.

Torturously slow Terry pulled Mytha’s head away, her lips never once letting go as she slurped along the entirety of his shaft. Even with a mouth full of dick she had a wry smirk; one could only wonder what sort of face he was pulling to elicit that sort of smugness. With a satisfying pop Mytha was pulled away, and flashing the thick white contents of her mouth to her sweetie and making sure that he was watching she gulped it all down in one go.

_Again, he didn’t question the physics._

Licking her lips for the bitter taste of Terry’s precum, she flirted soothingly, “ **Did you hold all of that back just for me, _ssssweetie_?”** Mytha bit her lower lip, lovingly nuzzling the ranger’s spent balls in a rather clumsy manner, **“And I thought _chardonnay_ was my favourite thing to drink…”**

Her debts paid and the two of them satisfied, a few moments later Mytha’s body ferried the archer across the ford of the toxic pool before deftly planting his numb feet onto dry land at the entrance to her chamber. Hesitantly she unravelled her coils, having gotten quite used to having someone handsome and warm to squeeze within them.

It took quite some time for Tenacious Terry to find his legs, his tenacity as per usual rather lacking much to his chagrin. It’d felt like eternity since he’d last stood on his own feet, having had his entire weight supported by Mytha’s strong, muscled tail. Rather self aware of his clothing arrangement he tugged at his trousers and tried to gussy himself up, his garments still drenched in poison and sweat.

Mytha watched him by the edge of her stagnant pool, not entirely comfortable with leaving it for too long. **“Do you still feel groggy?”** she asked worriedly, holding her head in front of her navel at roughly face level. Terry nodded in a suitably groggy fashion, and she returned the gesture with a flick of her wrists, **“It shouldn’t take more than an hour to wear off. You’re my big, strong _sweetie_ after all.” ** that confident smirk of hers returned for just a moment, yet it quickly changed places with an anxious pout, **“… Will you come back to me then?”**

What else did he have, honestly? Where could someone like him even go? He’d accepted the challenge of Earthen Peak and conquered it on his own; this place had become familiar in its eldritch design. Almost _homely_.

The great unknown, or a place with a woman who cared about his wellbeing?

A world he feared judgement from, or a world without such things?

There was only one answer.

The lamia’s fingers nervously drummed at her chin, half expecting him to say no. Terry settled on a reserved utterance of **“… O-Okay.”**

This time it wasn’t a smirk but rather a beaming smile, gratitude evident even in her body language as she amusingly bounced on her tail with enthusiasm. **“We can talk about all sorts of things then!”** she suggested, eager for company and someone to share tales with. Regardless, she knew that her toy needed time to recover his strength, her eyes staring at the ground and her excitement tanking in mere moments. **“Right, you should be off...”**

Reluctantly turning Terry stumbled on the first step, his jellified legs veering him to the right as he barely managed to catch himself on the wall. Glancing back at her in embarrassment he found that she’d moved up just behind, one hand outstretched should he fall backwards.

Flushing anxiously, Mytha’s body began to twirl her head’s hair between its fingers, “ **… Y-You won’t be gone long, will you?”**

Terry shook his head, to which she smiled sheepishly.

 **“Could you… Hold my head again, sweetie?”** she requested; just one more for the road. There was something comforting about being held in his hands, relinquishing control for a change, **“Could you… Hug me?”**

Offering her head with outstretched arms the ever polite Terry held her close to his chest, resting his chin atop her brow. Mytha sighed comfortably, snuggling up against his warmth and focusing on the rhythm of his pulse. While it was still recovering from his previous experience it remained a gentle sound, soothing to the ears; _very_ cosy.

The third member of the equation stood rather jealously a metre away, Mytha’s headless body grumpily folding its arms as her head got showered with affection. Terry glanced at it curiously only for it to turn to the side, as if looking away from him. He glanced down at her eyes, which looked right back up at him, **“Does your body…?”**

 **“Yes.”** she answered matter-of-factly, before pressing her face against his chest and covering her eyes, **“Yes it does.”**

Holding her head against him with one hand Terry offered himself to the serpent, who without a moment of pause lunged at him and wrapped its arms around his back in an affectionate embrace. Getting a face full of her swollen breasts once more the archer rest his head against her chest, their soft flesh a natural cushion for a weary soul. There was nothing erotic about this; it was the comforting and loving hug of someone who _truly_ cared.

_Had he ever really been held like that before?_

Eventually they parted ways, the dazed and confused Terry stumbling through the entrance hallway and taking an impromptu seat on a set of steps just above a pool of sludge. True to Sweet Shalquoir’s words he had pursued his hungers, straying further and further from the light and basking in the sinful allure of degeneracy.

Yet for some reason he didn’t _feel_ particularly bothered by it. He didn’t feel guilt or remorse, not even an ounce of regret. Was that the power of sin and temptation, or had his choice been right all along?

What was wrong with finding someone who loved you for who you were?

Tenacious Terry crooned forward, staring into the toxic goop before him yet finding no reflection. He’d fallen in love with someone just now, hadn’t he? And with Mytha returning the sentiment, would that technically make them… _Lovers_?

The ranger placed a hand on his chest, feeling his heart thud as it busied itself. They had given themselves to eachother, filled eachother with their essence, confided in eachother, and could very well be _living_ with eachother at the rate he was going; a queen and her sweetie.

She would always be with him.

_Literally, in his blood._

X

 **_(A/N):_ ** _A lamiae AND a dullahan… Why does no one remember Mytha?_

_Not that happy with how this turned out, but to be fair I was sort of trying to fetishise imminent death so I suppose you could forgive me for struggling. Suddenly finding someone he has feelings for, I wonder how the dazed and unarmed Tenacious Terry will fare when confronted by a fire-flinging sorceress from a band of pyromancers known for their lovely dress sense and even lovelier kisses? Could he resist such temptation?_

_I guess you could say that they’re to die for! Hehheh, I’m getting good at this… See you next time!_


End file.
